


The Call of the Void

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Child Death, F/M, Haunted Houses, Haunting, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Murder, Past Child Abuse, Post-World War II, Suicidal Thoughts, in the past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27841855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: Gone are the days of Casterly Rock's glory. The sea eats at the cliffs, the trees encroach on its once proud lawns, and the rooms inside have been shut up one by one.  A nurse and her patient are the only permanent residents. What secrets lay in the walls and how alone are they when the lights go out?
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 271
Kudos: 260





	1. The Position

**Author's Note:**

> This is a loving pastiche of haunting works I have loved. It owes much to Dame Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca, the far newer Haunting of Bly Manor and everything Shirley Jackson. I don't know if I can capture even a sliver of their style and tone, but I'm enjoying trying!

“I can’t argue your credentials. But why this position, Miss Tarth?” 

“Your advertisement suggested that it was well-paying and far away from the city,” Brienne folded her hands in her lap. The skirt itched at her bare skin. She hoped Mr. Lannister didn’t notice that she wasn’t wearing stockings. The skirt was long, but not long enough to entirely hide the immodesty. “Money and quiet are things I’m sorely in need of.” 

“Not for the love of nursing?” 

“There are an excess of nurses now,” she looked straight ahead. He stood in her peripheral vision pouring himself a whiskey instead of behind his imposing desk. 

“Mm, but most of them are returning home. Especially the American ones. Why not go back?” 

“I’ve developed a taste for tea,” she said curtly. What did the man want? Why had she even bothered pretending that she could get this job? 

Mr. Lannister let out a bark of laughter, “Serves me right for being nosy. All right, so you want money and quiet. I can mostly guarantee the former. The latter you will have most of the time. Casterly Rock is very isolated. Lannisport is a half hour drive and a far longer walk. Do you ride?” 

“I used to.” 

“There is a small stable. My brother won’t let me sell the horses, but they aren’t being ridden. You would be welcome to take them out,” the amber liquid in his glass caught the late afternoon light. “Podrick will run errands and such. There is a groundskeeper that comes up from town most days and a housekeeper that stops by to clean and cook on Saturdays and Wednesdays, leaves things in the refrigerator for the rest of the week.”

“Surely a manor would require more servants,” she blurted, then flushed. 

“It does. We’ve had to close off most of the rooms. My brother has become a hermit, Miss Tarth. To be frank, this position is not a straightforward nursing role. He is injured, but he has also become a drunk,” Mr. Lannister looked into his glass and with snort threw it back, “there’s only room for one of those in this family. I’ve been covering for him, but I cannot legally manage the estate. You need to dry him out. Get him back on his feet.” 

“I’m not sure I’m qualified to do that,” she smoothed down the awful skirt again. 

“Well, I’m out of options and if I had to guess, Miss Tarth,” his eyes went to her bare ankles, “so are you. I’ll pay handsomely and you’ll get a good portion of quiet. In a month, I intend to visit the Rock. I’ll bring your first month’s pay and if you want to quit then I’ll bring you back to town with me.” 

“...fine,” she exhaled.

After that it seemed to happen in an instant. He gave her a contract which she read in her drafty room in the boarding house. It seemed straightforward. Even the non-disclosure clause made sense and was reasonable enough. Certainly the pay was generous, far more than she could hope to make if she managed a job at a hospital or with a doctor's office.

_Dear Sansa,_

_I just received your letter from August, so please do not take me to be a tardy correspondent. I’m starting a new position this week that comes with boarding. I’ll put my new address at the bottom of the page. I admit, I look forward to saying goodbye to London. While it’s busy with reconstruction, the war seems to be everywhere. I cannot escape the fallen masonry and shells of old buildings. It will be good to be among green things again and away from so many reminders._

_How is Arya? Has she arrived home to you yet? It doesn’t surprise me that she found a way to stretch an already long journey to a true adventure. What about Bran? Jon? Please tell them that they are in my thoughts. I will send Jon a letter along once I’m settled. I’m sure he will be interested in what the tame woods might contain in contrast to his wilds._

_I don’t know how to respond to your generous offer. I love Winterfell and I hope to spend many happy visits with you there, but you know that I prefer to make my own way where I can. My hope is to take the money I earn from this position and find a place of my own. Close by, I assure you! But I have not had a home of my own in many years and I still dream of it._

_As to your predicament, you must know that no worthy man would pressure you to marry now. The estate is yours as your mother always hoped it would be. I have many impolite words for anyone who would try to convince you to do anything else, but be the manager of your own future._

_With much love,  
Brienne _

The Lannisport train station was pretty. It was surrounded by tall hedges and designed to look like an old fashioned cottage. A few other people had gotten off the train with her, but they’d gotten into cars or walked towards the village with little ceremony 

“Miss Tarth?” a young man with ruddy cheeks and a bashful smile approached her. 

“Yes?” 

“I’m Podrick Payne,” he held out his hand and she was pleased to shake it. “Mr. Tyrion told me you were coming. Let me take your bags.” 

Reluctantly, she let him pick up her small suitcases though she held onto her valise. He led her to a sleek black car that looked far too luxurious for its surroundings. It probably was a beast if opened up, but Podrick drove with care. They quickly left the edge of the town behind, sweeping up a winding road. On one side was the mountain face, on the other a sheer drop to the sea. 

“It’s beautiful,” she said with soft surprise. 

“Yes,” Podrick kept his eyes on the road, managing the tight turns with a white knuckled grip on the wheel. “This time of year doesn’t do it justice. Wait until the spring.” 

Would she still be here then? It was nearly November already. Her new employer seemed to think a month might be enough to chase her off. 

“I look forward to it.” 

There was a gate at the top of the hill. Podrick had to get out of the car, unlock the thick chains, drive through and then get out again to lock them again. 

“Do you get many trespassers?” she asked lightly. 

“Delivery gets left at the gates,” he matched her tone, despite the tightness at his eyes. “But sometimes if the gate is open they come up to the house. Just to be looky-loos.” 

“Do you live on the property?” 

“In the guest house,” he nodded. “But you’ll be in the house proper, of course.” 

The drive was tree-lined, allowing the house to make a gracious entrance over the greenery. It was a lordly stone edifice with jutting turrets and arched windows with the grey-blue sky and the distant sound of crashing waves serving as a perfect setting. It seemed like a painting for a poised moment, the idealized version of a grand manse. 

It was only as they got closer that Brienne could see the signs of neglect. The grounds were clearly still tended, but no longer held to a high standard. The hedges were shapeless, merely cut back far enough to let the car pass through. Many windows of the manor were shuttered like black eyes on a beautiful face.

The front door was hanging open, a body slumped in the doorway. 

“Oh dear,” Podrick sighed, parking in the front. 

“Is that man dead?” Brienne got to her feet, heedless of proprietary. She hiked up her skirt and ran up the stairs. “Sir!” 

“He’s alive, miss,” Podrick was in no such rush. He got out of the car and went to get his suitcases. “That’s Mr. Lannister.” 

She crouched down by the body, taking his wrist in her hand. It was limp, but the skin was warm and she easily found a pulse. Carefully, she rolled him over. He seemed to be asleep, no injuries except for the obvious. As she’d been told, his other hand was gone, along with a fair few inches of his forearm. It was badly wrapped and she didn’t like the smell coming off it. Didn’t like any of the smells, really. It was clear the man had recently vomited and most likely spilled a drink on himself. 

“Is this common?” she asked when Podrick at last ascended the stairs with her things. 

“Lately, yes,” Podrick barely looked at his master, stepping over him and heading into the house. 

“Can you lead me to his room?” she evaluated the situation and then got her arm under Mr. Lannister’s shoulders, hiking him up. When he proved too limp to drag, she sighed and just got him over her shoulder. 

“Wow,” Podrick’s eyes went wide. “You’re really strong.” 

“Yes,” she said simply. “Mr. Lannister’s room? 

The foyer was beautiful, fine marble floors and a sweeping staircase. They went upwards, Lannister’s hand banging against her back. He groaned at some point, but didn’t seem to wake. 

“The west hall is closed now,” Podrick gestured to the left where a dark hallway lay dormant. “No one here to make it worth opening. He’s this way.” 

To the right, the mirror image of the left, but graced with lights. Former candelabras had been done up with wires and clever candle-like bulbs. There were paintings on the walls, mostly landscapes that must’ve been of the area. Several seemed to be of Casterly Rock itself. There were several doors on either side of the hall and Podrick pointed to the bathroom and linen closet, then the empty bedrooms. 

“You’ll be next to him,” he explained, sounding a little apologetic. “I told Mr. Tyrion that that wasn’t right, but he said you were here as a nurse not a woman.” 

“Mr. Tyrion has a way of putting things,” she demurred, hoping her anger was well hidden. As if she could cease being a woman by being a nurse. Wouldn’t that be easier? To become a profession instead of a gender. 

“Here’s his. It’s one of the suites, got it’s own bathroom so you won’t have to share that at least,” Podrick stopped short of the door. “I’ll bring up your bags. Then I’ve got to see to the horses.” 

“Of course.” 

“I’ll be back tomorrow. I stop by the house at noon, usually to make sure he’s still-” he stopped himself. “Anyway, make me up a list of anything you want from town. I go shopping on Wednesdays and Fridays usually.” 

“Thank you,” she listened to him depart, then stepped inside the bedroom. 

It was dark, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight over the windows. If the man smelled, then the room reeked. There was a giant bed looming in the center with mussed blankets and sheets. She heaved him onto it, then rolled him onto his side in case he vomited again. The bedside table was littered with glasses and bottles. 

Impatient with the mess already, she threw open one of the curtains and gasped. The view was spectacular! Who would close their curtains against the blue-black sea as it roiled against the cliffside. In the distance, fishing boats were dotted picturesquely. It seemed the back of the house was nearly on the edge of the cliff face, only enough space for a small garden and patio below. She would have looked for hours, but the lump on the bed groaned and reminded her that she wasn’t here to look out windows, no matter how good the view. 

“Right,” she turned to confront the room. 

There was a giant fireplace to one side with a table and two armchairs arranged to face it. The table was weighed down with dirty plates and crumbled newspapers that fell to the floor. Discarded clothes were thrown over every surface and as she stooped to gather them, she found empty bottles in them as well. 

After some consideration, she went downstairs and located the kitchen. As she’d hoped there was an empty waste bin there and outside the door, a larger dumpster. It was empty as well. Not for long. 

It took her many trips up and down the stairs, but she emptied the room of bottles and dirty plates. Then it was the clothes, piled up into the hamper. There were large fabric bags with the rough stamp of some kind of laundry service, so at least she wouldn’t be washing his things. That might be a bridge too far. 

With a few tries, she was able to pry open the windows which were sticky with disuse. Fresh air, a hint of chill in it, flew in and made short work of the clinging odors. Then she tackled the bathroom. The man wasn’t a complete pig at least. The room wasn’t tidy, but it wasn’t a sty either. She ran a hot bath and as it filled, she steeled herself and went to the bed. 

“Wake up,” she clapped her hands by the man’s ear. A groan issued from him and he attempted to roll away. “Mr. Lannister, wake up!” 

A gusty snore issued from him. She considered her options. His clothes were filthy anyway. It was easy work to heft him again and in a trice, she was sliding him into the bath. 

“Bastard son of a whore!” he shouted, awake all at once and mad as a bull. She took several steps back from the bath to avoid getting splashed. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lannister,” she stood with her hands behind her back. 

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded. “How did you get in here?” 

“My name is Brienne Tarth. You may call me Miss Tarth. I’ve been hired as your nurse.” 

“You look like the back-end of a horse,” he sneered, wincing in the sunlight pouring in through the bathroom window. “You’re fired.” 

“You can’t fire me, sir,” she said plainly. “Mr. Tyrion Lannister is my employer.” 

“And this is my house!” he tried to get out of the bathtub, but seemed to forget his injury and collapsed back in. “My little brother is an interfering asshole and I will eat his heart in the goddamned marketplace!” 

“Be that as it may,” she shrugged, “I’m here and I will be attending to your recovery. Your wound seems to have traces of infection. Do you have any antibiotics prescribed to you or should I ask Podrick to fetch a doctor?” 

He stared at her, eyes narrowed in hatred and pain. She forced her face to stay entirely neutral. She had survived far worse than one bitter man. 

“There’s no prescription,” he said at last. 

“I see,” she frowned. “In that case, do you have a regular physician?” 

“No,” he pulled irritably at his soaking shirt, eventually succeeding in freeing himself from it. She turned around to give him privacy. 

“Then I will make an inquiry.” 

“Get out,” he growled.

She decided to cede the field for the moment though she didn’t go far. In his current condition, she wouldn’t put it past him to drown in the bath. When she at last heard the sound of his feet hitting the floor and the tub draining, she went back to the kitchen and prepared a simple tray. 

When she returned to the bedroom, he had pulled on a clean pair of pants and an undershirt, but his crisp button down hung open. Buttons would be an issue, she imagined. 

“He sent you to dry me out,” he accused as she set down her tray. “You threw out all my liquor.” 

“It was one of his concerns,” she said curtly. “And frankly, if you’re going to regain your health than alcohol isn’t doing you any good.” 

“And what if I told you that I wanted to die?” 

Anger flared through her so hot and unexpected that she almost choked on it, “How dare you.” 

“Wha-” 

“I spent the last three years of my life soaked in the deaths of men who told me how much they longed to go home. I stitched together wounds that would never heal while they cried for their mothers,” it gushed out of her, furious and thick as their blood, “and I fought for their lives and I lost. Over and over again. Brave and cowardly, our side, their side. All of them I would give anything to have made it. So if you think that I will allow one whiny rich boy to kill himself over self-pity and whiskey, you have another think coming.” 

He stared unblinking at her. Her face was on fire, her hands clenched in fists. Slowly a smirk came over his lips and she felt an intense desire to punch it off. 

“Lucky for you, I don’t actually want to die,” he fell back on the bed, his hair fanning out behind him. It was choppy and sun bleached. “Get me some headache pills and climb back into whatever well you crawled out of.” 

“Get them yourself. And eat something,” she turned her back on him, heading for the door. 

“Wait,” he said when she was nearly gone and she paused. “...I can’t open the damn bottle.” 

She turned back to face him, making sure he saw the steel in her eyes. “Then suffer.” 

It felt good to slam the door closed. So good she slammed her own shut too, confronted with her new room for the first time. 

It was only a little smaller than the one beside it. It also boasted an enormous confection of a bed, a modest fireplace, and the same tremendous view. Podrick had placed her suitcases right by the door. 

If she so desired, she could pick them up right now and begin her walk back to the train station. It would be a long hike, and it had been a long day, but she could still make it by the eight o’clock train back to London. 

Instead, she picked up the first case and opened it. There was a wardrobe in the corner, empty and smelling strongly of cedar. Methodically she unpacked her things and set the empty suitcases under the bed. Maybe even now he was penning a letter to his brother and she would be promptly fired, but she didn't think so. That would take more effort than he seemed capable of summoning. 

She set out to explore the rest of the house. The bathroom across the hallway was nicely appointed and bigger than any she’d ever had before. The three other doors opened to bedrooms that were barren of life. None of the beds had sheets and the other furniture bore dust covers. She closed them all carefully behind her. 

Perhaps if she were Sansa or Arya, she would have crept into the closed hallway and explored it’s depths. But Brienne had always been accused of lacking in imagination. There was no romance in the closed off wing of an old home to her. Only the potential for dust and chill. Instead, she went downstairs. There were several locked doors, but the kitchen and dining area were open and clean enough. There was a pleasant sitting room overlooking the front gardens. In better times, the room behind it had probably been another gathering space to look out onto the ocean, but that too had been shut up. 

There were few personal effects in the public rooms though everything was beautifully appointed. Dark woods and silky looking wallpapers, ceilings that boasted gold leaf and smooth white plaster. The rugs were clearly antique, not just old, their colors still bold despite their age. 

She had not eaten since arriving, despite preparing toast and eggs for Mr. Lannister. The refrigerator was well stocked. The cook had left behind several hearty dinners. Brienne settled on warming one up on the stove, stirring it idly as she watched the sunset over the gardens. 

When she reached for the ladle, someone behind her started laughing. She turned, brandishing the ladle like a weapon. It had been a mean sort of laugh, the sort she had heard her whole life right before something terrible happened. 

There was no one there. 

“Hello?” 

Silence. 

With a frown, she turned back to her stew. It was a large house, sound might carry differently. She ate at the counter. Podrick was outside in the distance, crossing the long lawn with a wheelbarrow, heading towards the stables. After, she washed her bowl and the pot, leaving them to dry. There were a few bookshelves in the sitting room. These she perused. Novels were of little interest to her, but there were some interesting looking works of nonfiction. Someone who once lived here had had a love of medieval history. She selected one on the crusades and withdrew to her room. Out of a sense of duty, she did stop by Mr. Lannister’s bedroom door. He was alive in there, perhaps pacing by the sound of it. 

Satisfied, she curled up on her new bed with the book and read until she fell asleep. 

Only to wake a bare hour later to the sound of muffled shouting, then glass shattering. She got to her feet and grabbed the closest thing to hand. The poker from the fireplace. That would do. And then she charged, bursting through Mr. Lannister’s door. 

He was standing in the middle of the room, clutching a bottle and staring at her with his mouth hanging open. There was no one else there. A tumbler must’ve been thrown at the wall, the shards strewn across the floor. 

“What on earth are you wearing?” he regained his composure before her. 

“A nightdress,” she crossed her arms over her chest and almost impaled herself with the poker. “I apologize for intruding. I heard shouting. And the glass.” 

They both looked at the shards. 

“I’ll clean it up in the morning,” he said vaguely. 

“Your barefoot and it’s between you and your bed,” she frowned. “I’ll get a broom and dustpan.” 

To her surprise, he diligently held the dustpan while she swept the pieces in. There might be a few tiny bits, but she had not located a vacuum yet, so this would have to do. He silently dumped the glass into the bathroom waste bin. 

“May I ask what brought that on?” she asked. 

“No,” he stared at her and in the lamp light, upright and clear-eyed, it was entirely different. He was, she saw now, a handsome man. Nearing forty perhaps, but the kind that only looked better for that. 

She noted it and set the fact aside. 

“All right, good night then, Mr. Lannister.” 

“Good night, harpy.” 

She shut the door very carefully and quietly. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of another slam. 

The hallway was chilly. Her toes curled into her feet as she shuffled the short distance to her room. Before she could close the door, she heard him speaking again. Not yelling this time, just a calm even tone. Talking to himself. 

Except as she made herself shut the door, she thought for a brief moment that she heard another voice responding. And then laughing. That terrible mocking laugh.


	2. Two Horses and the Missing Riders

In the morning, she knocked. 

And knocked. 

When he didn’t rouse, she opened the door and walked in, setting down the breakfast tray. She drew the curtains open that he had pulled closed again. It was a beautiful day outside. She pushed the windows up. Freed now from first impressions and interviews, she had banished the skirt to the back of the wardrobe. She was more content in her men’s slacks and crisp blouse. More like her clothes served her than the other way around. 

“Good morning, Mr. Lannister.” 

“Fuck off,” he moaned from the floor. 

“I see we had a productive night,” she leaned down and hauled him upright. He stank of red wine. It would probably take a few days for her to find all his caches, but she was resolved. 

“I did,” he groaned, exhaling as she plopped him down in one of the chairs by the fireplace. 

“I’ve already spoken to Podrick. He said the last time the doctor came, you punched him.” 

“He deserved it,” Lannister muttered darkly. 

“Be that as it may, he told Podrick that he would no longer treat you. I’m going to inspect your wounds myself and send a letter to him with my opinion. If he will not send along the proper medication then I will call your brother and see what alternatives we have.” 

“No.” 

“To which part?” she handed him a cup of tea, pleased that he absently started drinking it. 

“You can’t look at my arm.” 

“Did you enjoy the amputation so much last time that you’re willing to try for a second go?” She took her own cup and sat down in the other chair. It was a very aromatic tea, enjoyable with the brisk breeze coming through the window. “

“Fuck off.” 

“You have an infection. I need to know the extent,” she took another sip. “Or I can wait until you're delirious with fever, and drive you to a hospital.” 

“You can’t take me off the property,” he looked up, eyes wide. And that wasn’t an imperious order or a dismissal, but a desperate plea. “Do you understand? Under no circumstance.” 

“I can’t make that promise. My duty is to see you healthy. If you’re dying, then I will take you where you need to go.” 

He ate the eggs and toast she’s prepared without further comment. Most likely he noticed that she had cut the bread into neat squares and the eggs were scrambled, easy to stab with a fork. When they’d eaten he rose and headed to the bathroom. 

“Coming?” he called. “Now or never, harpy.” 

“I’m a nurse,” she said more to herself than to him. 

She crossed into the bathroom. He was sitting on the toilet lid. He’d pushed off the now very rumpled button down that he had half dressed in the day before. It was just his undershirt, well shaped shoulder and then the arm. It must’ve been strong once to match the musculature she could see in his other bicep. Now it was thin from disuse. 

“Clean bandages,” she said brusquely. “Where?” 

“Everything is under the sink,” he mumbled. 

There was quite a bit under the sink, including a bottle of vodka that she made a mental note of and several rounds of clean bandages. She wet a washcloth and took out the plastic basin as well. 

They were both silent as she unwound the bandage. There were irritated red marks where the cloth had dug in. The injury supposedly happened well over two months ago, a last cruelty of the front. This looked nearly fresh, except for the area that was indeed inflamed. She didn’t scrub at it, but gently squeezed water from the washcloth. Yesterday’s dump into the bathtub had done some good and the site wasn’t filthy at least. 

She did pat it dry with a towel. His eyes were averted, lingering on the window as she worked. It really shouldn’t need a bandage, but it looked so tender and sore that she re-wrapped it so it wouldn’t chafe against his shirt. 

“Get dressed,” she shook two pain killers from the bottle she’d found shoved in the back and offered them on her upturned palm. 

“Why?” he took the pills and threw them back, dry swallowing them down. 

“We’re going to take a walk.” 

“We are not doing shit.” 

“I would prefer not to drag you, but I absolutely will if you don’t cooperate.” 

“Are you a nurse or a jailer?” he groaned. 

“You need fresh air, Mr. Lannister. Apparently you were attempting to get some yesterday.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“We came across you passed out in the doorway. I assume you were going in or going out.” 

“Was I?” the question was fuzzy. Lost. 

“You have fifteen minutes to get dressed,” she did not allow herself to soften. He had put himself into that state, he could deal with the consequences. 

Perhaps he really did want to go outside or maybe he wished to prove some kind of point. In either case, he emerged dressed from his room. He’d apparently given up on the button downs, and instead had pulled on a light sweater. A comb might have met his hair as it hung straight and golden, if still uneven. He wore loafers, inappropriate for a walk, but probably easier to get on. 

She stayed at his side down the stairs and out of the house. Once they were on the driveway, she sped up on a hunch. He matched her handily. It hadn’t been too long since he had been a soldier. They followed the drive until he veered off onto a path that proved to wind through gardens. They were probably spectacular in the summer. Now they were cut down for the fall, more damp patches of dark earth then green. 

The air was getting into him, his cheeks no longer grey, but lively and pink. His eyes moved, scanning the horizon. He did look a little bit like a real aristocrat for a moment, taking the measure of his land. The beard and hair hampered the illusion only a little. 

The path circled around the back of the manor. The crash of the waves grew more and more insistent, a pounding rhythm as they futility tore at ancient rock. 

“There is an impulse to jump,” Mr. Lannister looked down over the edge of the cliff, drifting closer than she was comfortable with. “Not to die, you understand. Just to have the wind in your hair, the release of fear. I’ve seen it in everyone who comes near the edge of the cliff, regardless of station, gender or religion. A wild look.” 

“I have no such impulse.” 

“You do,” he didn’t even look at her. As if he could see some part of her that was opaque even to herself. “Or you will. Some have even given into it over the years. Dozens of generations of Lannisters, some of them were bound too. We used to pretend that we might.” 

“You and Mr. Tyrion?”

He made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a groan. “No. Tyrion never got near enough. He preferred his books to the back patio.” 

“I see.” She did not come any closer. He seemed calm, despite his horrid words. Eventually he stepped back and turned towards the house. 

“I take lunch at noon.” 

“Fascinating,” she said dryly. “I’m sure you’ll find your way to the kitchen then.” 

“I expect you to bring it up to me.” 

“Do you?” she walked past him, brimming with renewed irritation. “I will prepare you food as needed, sir. But I draw the line at delivering breakfast and no further. You want to eat, you will have to join me at the table.” 

“Bad form to let a patient starve, harpy.” 

“And yet,” she said with steel in her voice. 

“And yet,” he returned it. 

Swords drawn, metal slid against metal. 

She half-ran into the house and had the first victory of discovering two more bottles of liquor before he caught up to her, barring her from the bedroom. By then Podrick was at the front door, asking for her shopping list which she gave him along with the letter to the doctor. 

She ate lunch alone. 

Podrick returned with a glum look, most of the items on her list, and a brown bottle. 

“The doctor won’t come,” he sighed, “but he said that should be enough and strong enough to do it. If you want anything further, we’ll need someone new and Lannisport has no other decent physicians.” 

“I’ll see what I can do, thank you.” 

She pressed one of her few coins into his hand even though he protested. He would not be cajoled to take a meal either, slipping away to manage the horses or so he said. 

The day was beautiful. She checked on Mr. Lannister with a knock. He told her to go away unless she had a tray, so she figured he was well enough. Maybe he’d sneak downstairs to eat while she was gone which would be just fine by her. In that hope, she left the dose of medicine clearly on the table. 

When she had leisure, she preferred to be active and productive. The house would need attention eventually, housekeeper or no, but she would save that for poor weather days. For now, she changed clothes and went out to the stables. 

“Hello again, miss,” Podrick looked far more at ease here then at the house. “Mr. Tyrion said you might want a ride. I wouldn’t recommend going down the mountainside, but you can get up to a good gallop going on the far track.”

“Thank you, that sounds lovely.” 

There were four horses altogether which seemed excessive, all things considered. But there were stalls for at least ten. 

“This is Donnie,” Podrick petted a squat chestnut pony’s nose. “He’s Mr. Tyrion’s when he has a mind to ride which isn’t often. Next store is Thunder, that’s Mr. Lannister’s mare.” 

She was gorgeous, keen and clearly well loved with her glossy dapple coat. “She looks like quite a lady.” 

“She does,” Podrick smiled. “I exercise her every day. Started when Mr. Lannister left, and we’re good friends now.” 

There was an elderly gelding that ignored them roundly. He’d belonged to the late Lord Lannister, according to Podrick. 

“And that’s Lightening,” he just pointed at the far stall. 

“Thunder and Lightning?” 

“Same mother,” he didn’t move any closer. “She’s a biter, be careful.” 

Brienne frowned and kept a respectful distance. The horse looked much like her sister, and disinclined to notice Brienne. When she took another step forward, the horse’s head whipped around, one eye pinning her down. 

“Who was her rider?” Brienne asked, fighting the urge to step away. 

“Long gone,” Podrick mumbled. “If you want to take Thunder out, he’d appreciate it, miss.” 

“All right,” she accepted the distraction. She could feel Lightning's gaze on her back the entire time it took for Thunder to be saddled. 

It was easy to follow the trail Podrick had directed her too. For all that Casterly Rock was on top of the mountain, the grounds were expansive. The further she got from the manor, the better Brienne felt. She resolved to take a ride every day if this was the result. 

The wilds had begun to eat at the manicured lawns. She passed by fountains that were green with algae and the statutory grown over with moss. A woman posed with a pitcher, forever pouring nothing into stagnation. Vines crawled across stone benches, and weeds grew tall through cracks in walking paths. Yet, it seemed beautiful to Brienne, the way the forest was reasserting itself, heedless of the wealth that had sought to tame it. 

When she returned to the house, wind-blown and much more herself, she found the medicine still sitting out on the table. While she would love to out stubborn the man, she did have a job to do. Medicine and a glass of water in hand, she ventured once more upstairs. The door was open. Lannister was sitting by the fireplace, staring into the empty hearth. 

“Antibiotics,” she announced. He glanced at her and away. 

It reminded her of the look in Lightning's eye, a certain cold judgement. An evaluation that found her wanting. He took the dose from her, swallowed it down and followed it with the entire glass of water. He said nothing and she backed out of the room with a crawling feeling running up her spine. 

She ate dinner alone. 

The stairs creaked under foot as she ascended for bed. 

The door to her room was open. Her clothes had been ripped out of the wardrobe and strewn over the floor, even her underthings. She stared at the mess, closed her eyes and took a deep breath, expelling it slowly. How childish. 

“You will not best me,” she said aloud to assure herself. In the scheme of revenge, it was petty and small. It was easy enough to right things, set her clothes back where they belonged. Much worse had been done to her over the years and not all of them could be fixed so easily. 

Reading eased her frayed temper. She could hear the rise and fall of Mr. Lannister’s voice through the wall. If not for what it said about the man's fragile mental state, it was almost soothing.


	3. The Kindly Staff and the Dreadful Bath

Within a few days, she was certain she had rooted all the alcohol out of the house. It had taken a bit of a long, not entirely polite, talk with Podrick to convince him that no matter what Mr. Lannister said he was not to buy more. 

The mornings were the easiest. As promised she brought a tray up for him. She made it a hearty breakfast, concerned that it may truly be all he was eating. He took his medicine with eggs and toast and sausage so that she knew it was being properly digested. In those early hours, he was almost tolerable though he still sniped at her. 

Then the daily walk which he no longer fought her on. He would dress without being told to do so, and meet her on the stairs. They went a little longer each day. The state of the grounds didn’t seem to upset him, nor did he stop to admire them as she did. He seemed to hardly see where they were most of the time, walking in increasingly long strides with his eyes ever fixed on the horizon. 

Eventually though they would have to return and he would disappear into his room. Boredom ate at her, broken only by meals and her afternoon ride with Thunder. 

It came as some relief to finally meet the groundskeeper. She had been returning from her ride and spotted him kneeling in one of the flower beds, uprooting the plants. 

“Good afternoon,” she waved to him. 

“Ah, you must be, Miss Tarth,” he looked up, face ruddy and kind. “Podrick was talking my ear off about you. Davos Seaworth.” 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Seaworth. 

And it was nice to meet him. They talked about the grounds and Seaworth sighed over them, “Used to have a crew of twenty to keep this place as it should be, but with the war and how Mr. Lannister came back....well Mr. Tyrion told me to just to do my best and hang the rest of it.”

“I have some time on my hands,” she told him. “I’m not skilled with plants, but if you have something that needs doing, I don’t mind hard work.” 

“It’s not a lady’s job!” he protested. 

“I can assure you that I have never been considered a lady."

He taught her how to start up the lawnmower, a cranky bladed maw of a thing. Once it got going, all that was needed was to push it along and occasionally to pause and kick a rock out of the way. The smell of the grass and the last of fall’s warmth was almost as enjoyable as riding. There was raking to be done and keeping the drive clear of weeds too. 

There was also Walda, the housekeeper, who was driven up by her grimacing husband on Saturday as promised. She was a happy person, singing and chatting as she went about her day, sweeping Brienne along with her if she got too close. 

“I’ve been working for the Lannisters since I was a small thing,” Walda said after introducing herself, chopping vegetables with an unnecessarily large knife. “Always had ill luck, sad to say. Rich as Midas and what does it get them? Anyway, glad to see you’re doing well here. Settling in nicely. I’ll get the laundry, so don’t you worry about that. We’ve got a lovely laundress in town, who knows how to get stains out, I’ll tell you what.” 

“Thank you,” Brienne edged in, looking for a window out of the conversation. 

“Do you like sweet things? I’m always baking Mr. Lannister things, but I don’t think he’s eating them. His father hated sweets, never had a thing to do with them, but dear Mr. Tyrion would always be willing. Course, old Lannister went by Lord. Not sure why Mr. Lannister won’t, it’s his by rights, but he’s a funny sort. Sweetest boy though, always so good with his-” 

“Walda,” Mr. Lannister leaned into the kitchen. 

“Mr. Lannister! Oh, look at you sir up and about,” she turned to him with a bright smile, “I’m making your favorite meatloaf. But don’t you look a sight better. You’re doing some excellent nursing, Miss Tarth.” 

To Brienne’s eyes, Mr. Lannister looked worse if anything. Despite not having a drink in nearly a week, his eyes had only gotten more bloodshot. There were dark lingering bags under them. Perhaps his color had improved some, but it was hard to tell under the wilds of his untamed beard. 

“Walda,” he said again more firmly. 

“Yes, sir?” 

“Please don’t dust the west hall again, all right? We’ve talked about this, I’ve been sneezing for the last hour.” 

“Oh, yes, sorry sir,” Walda’s smile faded a bit around the edges. “Just...doesn’t feel right leaving it like that.” 

“No one’s using it. Likely no one will again,” his eyes darted sideways. “Leave it. Please.” 

“Of course, sir,” she gave a brisk nod. “Now come and sit, have a cup of tea. It will do you some good.” 

To Brienne’s surprise, Mr. Lannister did take a seat and allowed Walda to pour him a cup of tea and shove a plate of freshly baked bread slathered with butter in front of him. He even ate it, and finished the tea. He didn’t speak and neither did Brienne, but Walda chatted on making enough conversation for all three of them. 

Things became, if not comfortable, then at least familiar. 

There was a particularly satisfying day when the wind was particularly bracing, their walk extending nearly to the neglected fountains, she got to trim the hedges with all the satisfaction of wielding a very sharp implement, and then had a wonderful ride. Thunder had gotten used to her. Perhaps, she exercised her a little more thoroughly than Podrick had been doing because when she urged rer into a gallop, the beautiful beast finally took off at her full speed. The power that had been hidden was unleashed and they flew down the pathways to her exultant cry. 

A very satisfying day. So satisfying she decided to forgo her usual brisk shower for an indulgent bath. Mr. Lannister had fallen asleep on the floor in front of the fireplace again. She got him up and into the bed without him really waking up. Checked his bandages to find more pinpricks of blood and made a note in the log she had begun to keep. They had to get a doctor out here soon to look at him. The infection had finally gone, but the wound just didn’t seem to heal. 

She left quietly, leaving him to sleep. The bath was full enough by the time she was finished, so she locked the door and discarded her dirty clothes, hanging a clean bathrobe up on the hook. It felt amazing to sink into the depths. Heat leached into her sore muscles. The tub hadn’t been built for someone of her proportions, so wound up resting her feet on the lip at one end. Her eyes drifted closed. 

It was so quiet, she could make out the waves outside, the constant restless crash against the rock. 

Then she was under the water.

It happened so fast that she didn’t register it until it was nearly too late, inhaling a great gasp of water. There were hands like bands of iron around her ankles, pulling her body deeper under. She scrambled wildly, lungs burning until she could grab onto the edge and pull herself up and get her head above water. 

Just as quickly as it happened, it was over. She was alone in the room. There was no one holding her ankles. 

Her heart beat wildly in her chest. For a horrible moment, she wondered if it had been Mr. Lannister, but no. The door was still locked from the inside and she had certainly felt two hands. It must’ve been a terrible dream. She’d fallen asleep and her mind had invented the hands to scare her awake before she could drown herself. 

With another push, she was out of the bath and hurriedly pulled the drain. The bathrobe went around her body, the belt tied tightly. She forced herself to go through her usual routine of brushing her teeth and brushing her hair, but she didn’t stay to dry it. The few steps to her room made her feel exposed, a chill in the air raising the damp hairs on the back of her neck. 

Methodically, hands shaking, she got into her pajamas and slid under the blankets. It took ages for her to get warm, and sleep took even longer to come. 

_Dear Sansa,_

_I’ve just received your first letter to my new address. I fear I may have missed one in the process of moving, but as always your correspondence is thorough. I’m so pleased to hear that Arya has returned home at last. I do hope she stays with you for some time. At least for the winter though I’ve read it may be milder than last year. She should be home for the holidays if nothing else._

_Please thank Bran for his book recommendations. I may have to venture into Lannisport and see if they have any kind of library. The books in the manor are good, but not as many as I will likely need to get through the cold months. If not, perhaps we can create an exchange between us if Mr. Lannister will allow me to use his works for barter._

_As to the position, it goes well enough. I cannot speak of my patient without violating his confidence, but it is a peculiar instance and I’m not sure I fully understand my role. I hope that I am helping. In all honesty, I believe I’m only a stopgap for now until someone more with more learning can be convinced to come out and examine the case._

_I’m not surprised that you’ve heard of the family and the manor. I’ve been informed by the staff that the family had been prominent for some time. Your letter suggests that you were not well acquainted with them, but have your reasons to be dislike them. I don't know what to make of your accusations, you'll forgive me, but they are a little vague. Mr. Lannister is not a kind man, nor a monstrous one._

_I can say that the manor is very beautiful though of course not as lovely as Winterfell. I’m not sure that with all it’s beauty that I can say that I enjoy it. The grounds, yes, but the house itself seems different. There is a feeling I have that I cannot put into words when I am inside. Something that pushes on me and makes me heavy. I wonder what you would make of it? Perhaps it is just the way of an old drafty house with not enough people in it._

_I hope this letter reaches you soon. Please give all my best wishes to everyone._

_All my love,  
Brienne _


	4. The First Visitiation

Eventually the days accumulated into weeks and the weeks into an entire month. She ticked them off on her calendar with grim determination. Mr. Tyrion had not contacted her in that time though a few times a ringing phone had startled her at odd hours of the day. By the time she would reach the kitchen phone, Mr. Lannister would have already picked up and she’d catch a brief snatch of one of the brothers’ voices before hurriedly resetting it. 

So he was still paying attention and the likely day of his one month visit dawned with a bright sun. The weather was still meandering towards cold, but never diving down enough to frost over the retired gardens. 

When she went to wake Mr. Lannister, she found him already up for the first time since her arrival. He was standing by the window that she habitually opened first thing, the curtains turned aside. 

“Good morning,” she ventured, wrong-footed. 

“Good morning,” his hand clenched and then released. “I am...I would like your help with something.” 

“What do you need?”

“I don’t suppose you know how to shave?” he glanced at her. “Mannish you may be, but I know you’re a woman still.” 

She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes and took a large inhalation, expelling it slowly. 

“I learned how to shave to clear the way for surgeries,” she said with tattered calm. 

“This thing itches to hell and back,” he admitted, coming up to touch the ragged beard. 

“We’ll have to do it in the bathroom,” she decided. “This carpet has seen enough things.” 

“Yes,” he frowned. “I suppose it has.” 

In a parody of their first day together, he sat down on the toilet seat. This time, he did not look away as he always did when she changed his bandages. Instead, he made an alarming amount of eye contact as she trimmed away the excess hair with a pair of scissors first. With all the blades around his face, even he was disinclined to hurl abuse at her. Instead, he watched her steadily as she worked. 

It was unnerving, but she’d done more frightening things under worse conditions. Her hands did not so much as tremble as she took up the lather and razor. She worked carefully, not wanting to hear any critique on drawn blood. Beneath the hair, there was a strong chin and jaw. His lips were thin, she almost delighted to note, a flaw in the beauty beneath. 

“Not bad,” he had to concede when she was done. They both looked into the mirror over the sink. He looked much younger now. The only thing betraying him was the thatch of uneven hair. They both looked at the ragged edges. “Might as well.” 

“I’m no hairdresser,” she frowned. “Shaving is easier.” 

“It’ll grow back,” he decided. “At least get it out of my damn face.” 

So she took up the scissor again, more tentatively this time. And now his mouth was free to do what he liked. 

“What happened to that hideous skirt from when you arrived?” 

“I’m not sure why that’s your business,” she snipped and watched several golden strands fall to the floor. His hair was soft under her fingers, softer than it had any right to be considering his lackluster hygiene. 

“You dress like a schoolboy. You’re lucky that Walda hasn’t tried to truss you up in ribbons and bows though that would probably make you look more clownish than you already do.” 

“I dress to please myself and no one else,” she said flatly. “And pants are more practical. It isn’t my fault that society has decided a woman should be forever hampered and pinned in by her clothes and I don’t intend to listen to it.” 

“A woman who ignores what society wants has few options.” 

“Yes, clearly,” she gestured between them, watching his eyes cross as the point of the scissors neared his face. “Or do you think I’m here because I enjoy being regularly insulted by an egotistical child?” 

“I assumed you had just manifested from the depths of hell to specifically torment me.” 

She stepped back and stared at him, “I am holding a pair of scissors. My professional goals to keep your body and mind intact do not extend to your hair. Do you understand?” 

His eyes went wide and he barked out a laugh of genuine mirth, “Yes, yes, sorry. I’ll behave.” 

Partly mollified, she went on trimming. He hummed something under his breath, a snatch of music she vaguely recognized, but otherwise obliged her by staying quiet. 

“That’s as good as I’m going to get it,” she frowned at her work. “It’s even at least.” 

He didn’t even glance in the mirror again, “Fine. Now get out so I can piss in peace.” 

She beat a retreat and prepared their breakfast. Sausage, and beans on toast. The kitchen seemed too warm, at odds with the coolness promised by the wind now kicking up leaves outside. 

His eyes were the same blue as the cloudy sky, a single freckle of brown in the right one like a drop of blood in the water. 

For the first time in weeks, she heard that terrible mocking laughter. 

She turned from the stove, slowly and without much expectation. There wasn’t anything there, of course. This house and that man were grinding on her nerves, already exposed by too long at war, she decided. Healer tend thyself, she scolded and carried the tray up. Nothing that some food and a hot drink wouldn’t help. 

The car arrived just as they were returning from their morning walk. It seemed that along with his freshly shaven face and trimmed hair, Mr. Lannister had attempted to make an effort with his clothes. Buttons hadn’t been managed, but he looked tidier, everything matching and not too terribly rumpled with the effort to put it on. 

“Jaime!” Tyrion got out of the back of the car. His driver seemed content to stay just as he was, ignoring Brienne’s attempts to greet him. 

“Tyrion,” Mr. Lannister smiled. A genuine wide smile. “Come to check up on me?” 

“Yes,” Tyrion said frankly, glancing at Brienne. “But I see our good nurse here has lived up to her resume. Come, tell me all about it.” 

“I’ll make tea,” Brienne mumbled and disappeared. 

The brothers stayed outside, seemingly content to begin again the walk that she and Mr. Lannister had just completed. They were an odd pair, not only with their heights, but the manner of dress and style. Mr. Lannister’s wardrobe was poshly subdued, suits in plain colors and practical riding clothes that gathered dust now. Mr. Tyrion wore brocades, silks, and bright colors. He moved languidly, seemingly disinterested in the land through which they moved while Mr. Lannister once put into motion seemed to remain that way. Though he slowed down for his brother, seemingly without complaint. 

They were enjoying each other’s company. That was nice. 

That night they both came to the table for dinner which she had not been prepared for. She got up to pull something from the fridge, 

“Oh don’t bother with that,” Mr. Tyrion chided her. “It’s hardly what I’m paying you for. Anyway, I’m a bachelor of old and I prefer my own cooking.” 

“You have a cook,” Mr. Lannister rolled his eyes. 

“I do not, not anymore,” Mr. Tyrion said simply. “And really, Jaime, it’s hardly difficult to boil an egg.” 

Mr. Tyrion did not boil an egg. He did something marvelous with a bit of meat and some potatoes that made Brienne’s mouth water. Walda was a decent cook, but she wasn’t adventurous beyond salt and pepper. This was spicy and fragrant. 

“Thank you,” she said reverently. 

“It’s nothing,” Mr. Tyrion dismissed though he looked very pleased when she took seconds of the potatoes. 

“Don’t compliment him,” Mr. Lannister tsked, “it goes straight to his head.” 

“Shut up,” Mr. Tyrion said pleasantly. 

They talked amongst themselves mostly, but Brienne was too content with food to mind being excluded. Their conversation was mostly on business, properties far from Casterly Rock that were in the process of being sold off as far as she could follow. Eventually she rose to do the dishes and this time was not stopped. 

“I don’t suppose you smoke cigars?” Mr. Tyrion asked as they got up from the table. 

“No,” she brushed back her hair from her forehead with the back of her hand. It was starting to escape it’s pins as it always did this time of day. “I don’t smoke.” 

“Pity,” Mr. Tyrion headed towards the back of the house, Mr. Lannister on his heels, “you would make quite a picturesque scene smoking one by the water.” 

“What?” she asked the empty air after they had gone. If it had been a dig, it was a strange one. 

When she went to close her window for the night, she could see them sitting in the lamp light on the patio. Their cigars were orange points of light. The smell drifted up, acrid against the brine of the sea. She closed the window against it and went to bed. 

_She was in the stables. Walking past empty stall after empty stall, trying to read long faded brass nameplates. Outside, a hail of gunfire and screaming, but she could see nothing nor smell a hint of smoke. They must need her, she picked up the pace, first walking quickly then bursting into a run as someone cried out, the agony of the dying._

_There was no exit, only a last stall where Lightning stood. A soldier tended to her, brushing out her mane with soft coos. The soldier turned as Brienne approached. No man's face looked out from under the helmet, but a woman so beautiful it hurt to look at her. Her mouth opened wider and wider, all the noise of the war not coming from outside at all, but hurling from her mouth. Brienne reached out to her to comfort her or to make it stop, which one she could not say._

_The woman's hand came up, talons of artillery and slashed across her face, and the war cried, "Go home!"_

She woke with her face wet with tears. Fumbling, she reached for a handkerchief to wipe them away. A familiar tang came into her nose and as she pulled the cloth from her face, she found it dark with blood. 

In an instant, she was on her feet, throwing open the bedroom door to cross into the bathroom, fumbling for the light. The mirror showed her the truth, three deep scratches across her left cheek, spilling slow trickles of blood. 

"Miss Tarth," the voice made her jump and she turned with a fist already made to find Mr. Tyrion in the doorframe. He was wrapped up in a silken robe, eyes rimmed with darkness, "are you all right?" 

"No," she could hardly hide what had happened. "I'm sorry, sir. I have these dreams sometimes...they're not uncommon. But I seemed to have scratched myself."

"Those look deep," he gazed up at her. "Please don't let me impugn your good work, but I think some help might be in order?" 

"Please," she wanted the company more than the aid. 

It took a little doing, but they found if she sat on the floor, he could easily clean the area and place the bandages. His breath smelled of whiskey, but his hands were sure. 

"I hate this place," he told her as he worked. "I find I have the worst dreams here." 

"I just have them from the war," she closed her eyes in case his face betrayed any pity. "I can't blame the house." 

"Perhaps you should," he muttered. 

"If I blame the place, then I won't ever contend with myself," she frowned. "You can't heal like that." 

"As Jaime, isn't healing?" 

"I was going to ask you about that tomorrow," she flushed with guilt. "He needs a doctor, but none in the surrounding towns will come." 

"Our reputation poisons many wells," he sighed and smoothed down the last plaster. "I'll send someone from London when I can find one willing to trek here for a housecall."

"I could take him to someone, but he refuses to leave the grounds." 

"Refuses or cannot?" he took a step back and she opened her eyes again. No pity at all, but something else, something...afraid. "I'll speak with him, but I don't think either of us have a large enough lever to move him from here. No, I'll see what I can do about getting a specialist to you. For now, keep up what you're doing. He really is doing much better." 

"Aside from the wound you asked me to tend." 

"I think you'll recall I asked you to look after more than one," he patted her knee in an avuncular fashion. "Come. Let's have a bit of naughty snack and see if that puts us both to bed in better moods." 

They had tea that Mr. Tyrion laced with brandy ( "It's medicinal, Miss Tarth.") and a handful of shortbread cookies that Walda had left in the pantry. They sat at the kitchen table, the moonlight more than enough to see by. 

"I take it that you are resolved to stay?" He asked as she took a sip of the tea. The brand was warming. "I can still take you back to London tomorrow if you'd like." 

"I'm staying," she hadn't even considered going. Her work here was incomplete. Mr. Lannister needed her, no matter what he might say.

"That's too bad," he smiled faintly at her. "But good for me, so I won't try to convince you otherwise." 

"May I ask something?" the mood felt candid enough in the dark. He gestured for her to go ahead, "Podrick mentioned that the horse, Lightning, that her rider was dead. He seemed upset so I didn't press him. Who were they?" 

"Ah," Mr. Tyrion broke the biscuit into quarters, watching the crumbs fall to his plate. "You could've found out easily, you know. The papers were full of it when it happened. Did you do no research when you accepted the position?" 

"No," she shrugged. "I didn't have many people to ask and I'm not very interested in gossip from the papers." 

"What an interesting creature you are," he finally popped a piece of shortbread in his mouth. "She was my sister's horse. Cersei Baratheon. Jaime's twin." 

"Baratheon," she swallowed hard, "I know that name. I knew Renly." 

"Ah, the most popular brother though that wasn't hard," he nodded. "Did he speak of his sister-in-law?"

"Not once. He barely spoke of his family at all," mostly they had talked about the fighting. He'd listened to her strategies, dreamed up in between shifts. 

"That doesn't surprise me. No one got along with Robert," Tyrion shook his head. "She died last year." 

"I'm sorry for your loss." 

"I suppose that makes one of us." 

She didn't ask more questions and he provided no more answers. 

The next day, the brothers said their goodbyes and Mr. Tyrion left her with a substantial amount of cash, far more than they had agreed she should be paid. When she tried to return it, he had only rolled his eyes and scoffed, 

"It's nothing much really and you've earned it." 

It wasn't until after he was gone, his driver still never having appeared to have left the car in the first place, that Mr. Lannister turned to her and demanded, 

"What happened to your face?" 

She folded her arms over her chest, "Just an accident. I scratched at myself in my sleep." 

"Is that all?" he stared at her and she stared back. 

"I have no other explanation." 

He beat his fingers against his leg, "Right. Are we walking then?” 

“Of course.” 

They set out, their feet loud in the dirt. There were a dozen or so blackbirds in the trees, bickering among themselves. It seemed every day that Brienne discovered something new on the grounds. A statue half-hidden in the foliage, a diverted path that meandered out to the cliffside perhaps. Today it was something less substantial. Off in the trees, a flare of color caught her eye and she turned off the path to get a closer look. 

“What now?” Mr. Lannister grumbled. 

“I thought I saw something,” she told him and there, she reached up and up and managed to snag it. It was a scarf or must have been once. The weather had been unkind, tearing at its edges and bleaching away it’s color until it was a patchy lavender. The material was still soft in her hands. “It looks like it’s been here awhile.” 

“Everything has been here awhile,” but Mr. Lannister reached for it and she handed it to him. His fist tightened around the material, his eyes closing briefly. “My brother mentioned her to you.” 

“Your sister, yes,” the cloth suddenly seemed heavier in his hand and she wished now that she had not seen it at all. “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

“Thank you,” he balled up the cloth and jammed it into his pocket. “She died here, did he tell you that?” 

“He told me only her name and that she died last year,” she started walking again which seemed to bring him along, his pace soon matching hers again. 

“She died here,” he repeated. 

“That must be painful,” she ventured. “My brother died not far from our home and it was very difficult.” 

“Yes,” he glanced at her, “perhaps you have an idea then.” 

“When we sold the house, it was years later and we found some of his baseball cards under a floorboard,” she could still remember how they felt in her hand and how she’d cried over them for a boy she barely remembered. “The dead leave their marks everywhere.” 

“So it seems,” he agreed, glancing at her face then away again. “So it seems.”


	5. Holiday Cheer in the West Hall

“Bet it’ll snow tomorrow,” Podrick declared when she came by in the afternoon. 

“It does seem likely,” she glanced up at the heavy grey sky. “It won’t stick.” 

“Still, always nice to get a few flakes. Especially getting close to the holidays.” 

It was getting close. Brienne hadn’t thought about celebrating Christmas in a long time. During the war, Christmas happened around her with the hospital putting up some decorations where they could. Simple, cheap things, but attempts at making things less glum. Some of the nurses exchanged presents if they had the means. Brienne had been gifted several pairs of warm socks by Sansa and in return presented her with lemon drops hoarded away for the occasion. Still, men died around them heedless of the date and she declined whatever parties were scraped together.

Before that, she had been quite alone. 

Thunder was in a mood, stopping periodically to graze despite her best efforts and she didn’t really have the heart to stop the mare. Soon all the greenery would be gone and she’d be eating grain for months. There were a few evergreens around the place. It proved easy enough to break off a few boughs. After that, it was natural enough to add a red ribbon to Podrick’s usual shopping list and he seemed to take it in stride. 

She put them up in her room, tying the red ribbons around the boughs. Not wanting to damage the walls, she placed them on top of the furniture and along the window sill. It was a small thing, but pleasant enough. 

“You smell like pine,” Mr. Lannister accused as she came in the next morning. More often now, he was awake when she arrived and dressed as he could be for the day. 

“It’s nearly Christmas,” she opened the curtains and indeed, there were some flakes dancing down and melting as they reached the too warm earth. 

“There’s proper decorations in the cellar,” he scoffed. 

“What’s more Christmas than fresh pine?” she turned to him. “But if you’d like to decorate, then we can bring them up.” 

He hesitated, then shook his head, “No need. There’s no party to be had this year.” 

“Mr. Tyrion won’t be coming up?” 

“He spends his holidays in the pursuit of women and wine,” he snorted. 

So that seemed the end of that as far as he was concerned. But Brienne didn’t wish to spite the holiday entirely and on Wednesday asked Podrick if she could go into town with him. 

“Of course!” he smiled broadly at her. “Be nice to have some company.” 

She didn’t bother telling Mr. Lannister that she was going. She hadn’t technically had a day off since arriving and it would be in the afternoon when he would hardly notice her missing. If he did...well. Let him stew a little on that. 

Lannisport proper was a pretty little town, shops crowded together and busy with locals coming to and from. They went to the grocer first. As soon as Podrick and Brienne entered, the general din of the store seemed to mute. She felt eyes on her and was glad that she’d pulled out the cursed skirt at least. 

“It’s nothing, miss,” Podrick stood up straighter under the scrutiny. “Just plough on.” 

So she did. They picked up the necessities for the week to come. There was a book store down the street and there Brienne found some romantic paperbacks for Walda, who had professed to enjoying them. The cashier seemed to pay her and Podrick no particular mind at all and even smiled when Brienne quietly came back while Podrick was distracted in the hobby shop to purchase the photography book he’d reluctantly set back down on their way out. For Davos, she picked out a few interesting fishing lures. 

And then there was Mr. Lannister. Nothing at the hobby shop seemed correct. Perhaps getting him a present at all was incorrect. It nagged at her a bit as they went at last to the clothing store. She was badly in need of new winter clothes altogether, but the prices were steep and she settled on a thick wool coat and decided she could make do with that over her flimsier warm weather things. 

It was only as she went by the shoes that something caught her eye. It was the kind of thing her father would’ve owned or more likely, her mother, but it was a practical tool. She paid for it along with her coat. 

On Christmas Eve, she ate pork chops and mashed potatoes alone at the table. It was raining outside, a steady drip against the window panes. Podrick had politely refused dinner and she realized that he had never once voluntarily stepped foot in the house. Nor Davos, but at least he had the excuse of living off the grounds. They had both taken their gifts home with happy surprise and in return she had a sturdy pair of work gloves and small watercolor that Podrick had painted of Thunder. It was inexpertly done, but she put it up in her room anyway, grateful for the effort. 

Walda had squealed over her books and presented her with a new blouse. To Brienne’s surprise it fit well, broad enough across the shoulders and it was a passable pale blue with brass buttons. 

“I sew to make a little extra,” Walda explained with a happy grin when Brienne confessed to liking it very much. “It looks very smart on you.”

So despite the lonely meal, it wasn’t such a terrible night. She had the companionship of her new friends' gifts and a letter from Sansa to read. All was as well as it could be. 

On the day, she certainly expected nothing. So she rose and got ready for an ordinary day. Perhaps she made cinnamon toast instead of regular, but otherwise all was normal. She knocked briskly on his door at the regular hour. 

“Come in,” he called and she swept in with the tray. 

They ate by the fire in the fireplace. He was wearing a deep blue sweater. It had been hemmed at the wrist of his missing hand, the first she’d seen like that. Clearly Walda had been at work, gently prodding him to at least stay warmer in the chill months with her work. 

“There’s frost,” she commented lightly as they headed downstairs for their walk. She pulled on her new coat, pleased when it settled warm around her even if it was too boxy at the waist, made for a man as it was. 

Mr. Lannister drew a heavy woolen coat out from the closet, leaving it unbuttoned as if being open to the cold left him entirely unbothered. 

Brienne reached into her pocket and pulled out her purchase, extending it to him, “Here.” 

“What’s this?” he frowned down at the heavy wooden handle and the leather loop at one end. 

“It’s a button hook,” she considered her choices and then undid one of her own coat buttons. She pushed the loop through the buttonhole and fished it around the button, drawing it back through to clasp it. 

She offered it to him again and this time he took it. 

“I left my gloves upstairs,” she declared and went back up, giving him time to fumble with it. His pride would not allow for her to see failure and she wanted him to use the damn thing. 

When she returned, his coat was buttoned and the button hook had disappeared, presumably into his pocket. They said nothing as they went out, but they walked yet further that day, unbothered by the cold. 

Without Davos to guide her and the ground quite frozen, Brienne decided to treat the day as one of rest. When Mr. Lannister retreated to his room, she went into the sitting room and perused the books. None of them quite caught her eye, but she did find a deck of cards. It was pleasant enough to play solitaire by the window and watch the remaining black birds pick across the lawn. 

For dinner, she reheated the thick stew that Walda had left for them and a cut of fresh bread. She ate at the table, a book open before her. 

“Did you have no one to go home to?” 

She started and almost upset her bowl over the book. It was only Mr. Lannister, of course, standing in the kitchen doorway. His shadow pooled long over the floor. 

“Excuse me?” she closed the book. 

“Home is far away for you, I suppose. And clearly you’re not eager to return,” he crossed the floor, got down a bowl and ladled stew in it for himself. 

Then he sat down across from her as if they ate here all the time and not just the once before. 

“I have no blood relations left,” she said stiffly, watching him closely. “My father died in the war.” 

He nodded vaguely, dipping his spoon in and fishing out a chunk of potato, “So did mine.” 

“I stayed because I have friends here,” she offered, hoping she didn’t regret it. “Up north. I mean to buy a house there eventually to be close by.” 

“That’s why you took this job,” he sounded satisfied as if he had been wondering and too...something to ask. 

“Yes. And I thought it would be good to get away from the city.” 

“Ha,” he gave her a wane smile, “and how is that working out for you?” 

“Just fine, thank you.” 

“You don’t have to lie,” he paused to chew his potato, “it’s a lonely old place and I’m not exactly fine company.” 

“You’re not the only company to be had,” she shrugged. “When I was girl, I was more alone than not. I’m used to it.” 

“I’m not,” he drew his spoon through the stew without picking anything up. “This place...it wasn’t always warm, but it was busy. Servants, family. Moving through it all the time. We would have parties at Christmas with over a hundred people.” 

She could well imagine it. Her mental map of the house included those locked up rooms. A large dining hall seemed likely and a room for dancing. All cordoned off now, gone dusty and sour with disuse. 

“I never much liked parties.” 

“No, I’d guess you wouldn’t,” his eyes flickered over her and she tensed, but no judgement followed. Only, “I liked the music. Father hired a band, a twelve piece or more. You could barely hear over it. It was old stuff, stiff and formal, but still joyful. I tried to get jazz going, but Father wouldn’t hear of it.” 

“We had a jazz club the next town over when I was growing up. I used to go there with my father sometimes,” she smiled at the memory. He’d dress her as a boy and she’d been so tall that even at eleven or twelve, they would take her for a teenager. She was allowed to sit at his table and listen to his friends talk about any number of things that she probably shouldn’t have heard. “He had a good year once on the farm, saved up and he took me into the city. We heard Billie Holiday sing.” 

“What was it like?” he leaned in a fraction. 

“It was like...warmth being poured over me,” if she closed her eyes, she was there again. “She didn’t look at our table or anything, but you still felt surrounded by her voice. Like she understood you. That probably sounds ridiculous.” 

“No,” Mr. Lannister was looking at her so steadily that she felt pinned, a collected butterfly. “It sounds exactly right.” 

A dull thud echoed through the kitchen, something heavy pushed over. Their eyes both went to the ceiling. The west hall. Thud. Thud. Thud. 

“The pipes,” he said, his mouth twisting. 

“What do you take me for?” she stood, grabbing one of the knives off the block. “Someone’s in the house.”

“No one’s there,” he protested weakly. 

Thud. Thud. 

“Podrick told me you get people trying to get in here sometimes. I’m not allowing that. Not in a place I sleep.” 

She took the stairs quietly. He came up behind her, no longer trying to to stop her, but not helping either. His tread was heavy. 

There was a matching light switch at the edge of the west hall and she flipped it on. The lights did not spring immediately to life. Instead the fake candle bulbs flickered and came on at half power, some of them failing to turn on altogether. The same corridor of doors, the same bland paintings as the east hall. 

The doors to the left would be over the kitchen, so she ignored the right. Her hand was on the first knob before her racing thoughts had caught up. She pushed it open with the knife ready in the other. 

The windows were shuttered, the lights flickered on when she tried the switch just as reluctantly obedient as they had been in the hall. It was a bedroom, the bed the same hulking monstrosity all the rooms had. It was fully furnished, books lining every wall. A single picture propped up on the bedside table, Mr. Lannister as a teenager with his arm around a young Mr. Tyrion. 

“Tyrion’s room,” he supplied warily. “See? Empty?” 

“Why did he sleep in a guest room?” she asked, bewildered. 

Thump. Louder this time and clearly next store. He jumped back as she turned, the point of the knife gleaming in the lowlight. She raced down the hall, throwing open the next door. 

“Show yourself!” she demanded. 

Nothing. She turned on the lights, throwing up her arm over her eyes when they flared on too bright like a crack of lightning. 

Another bedroom with matching furniture to the other. The bookshelves were filled with boyish treasures: model cars, a handful of smooth rocks, a pile of adventure magazines with lurid colors starting to fade. There had been pictures on the walls. They had fallen from their hooks, landing face down in their heavy frames. 

The bed had been stripped, its nakedness at odds with the rest of the room. In the center was an old rusty stain that spread over the mattress. 

There was no place to hide here, no one standing in the shadows. She knelt down to look under the bed, just in case, but it was dusty and forgotten. One of the smaller frames had landed partially beneath it and she picked it up, still holding the knife just in case. 

It was of Mr. Lannister again. Younger and smiling in a way she had never seen. The corners of his eyes were crinkled up, a smile that said you couldn’t trust him, but you might like to try anyway. 

And the woman beside him had the same cruel grin. How perfectly matched they were, the king and queen of a chess set. Her hair cascaded down her back, an accessory itself to her fine dress and matching hat. His arm was around her, their height as even as a plane could’ve made it. Even without color, it was obvious their eyes had been the same shade. 

“What happened here?” she got up, turning to face him, but he was gone. She stared into the empty hall. “You coward.” 

Without a fire, the room had taken on the outside chill. She set the photo back on the hook it must’ve sprung from and headed back out. Perhaps the intruder had finished their mischief and was now on the grounds. 

She reached for the light switch to return the room to it’s frozen darkness. 

Thump. She turned on her heel. 

The photo was back on the ground. 

Brienne pressed her lips together, eyes flickering to the bed. The rusty spot remained. 

“And a Merry Christmas to you,” she said through clenched teeth, turned off the lights and stormed back down the hall. 

She could hear Mr. Lannister, not talking, but pacing as restless as a tiger in a zoo. Fine, let him pace. He'd earned his unrest tonight. 

Her room was in disarray once more when she entered and it barely surprised her. The boughs, Podrick's little painting and her clothes were strewn in every corner and covered with her letters like snow. Ruthlessly she folded and tucked every item back where it belonged, not allowing herself a moment of fear. Even if she did almost ruin her new shirt by forgetting the knife in her hand at first. 

It was only when all was as it should be that she saw the box on her bed. It was ordinary enough, a shoebox in plain colors. 

There was a white envelope on top and inside a card. In shaky, wrong-handed handwriting it read, 

_A soldier is only as good as their boots._ The card itself was cream. A pretty monogrammed JL embossed in the front. 

The box produced a slightly used pair of boots. They were hardy looking things, the only sign that they might have belonged to someone else once was a slight scuff mark on the right toe. Written in elegant script on the inside of the left tongue were his initials once more. 

He must’ve left them here before coming down for dinner. A peace offering? A Christmas gift? What moment of sentiment had provoked such a thing? 

They would clearly fit. Their feet were apparently the same size. Which made her both a little ashamed and in a far darker feeling, vengeful. 

Doubtless the woman in that photo had had slender feet as delicate as her hands. A place where their twinness had dissolved. And here did he and Brienne converge, though otherwise they were unlike as the sun and the moon. 

A coward he was, but perhaps for good reason. She inhaled and exhaled shakily. 

The manor was an ineffective shell against the battering of the waves that night. She lay awake listening to them crash against the cliffside. His pacing slowed then ceased altogether, the bliss of sleep consenting to take his undeserving body. 

And several minutes later, it began again. A lighter tread. Back and forth, back and forth. A metronome in counterpoint to the waves.


	6. The Second Visitation

Exhausted, full of fragmented dreams, and a sour taste in her mouth, Brienne was slow to wake the next morning. She dragged herself up and considered skipping breakfast entirely. Only her sense of duty forced her to her feet. 

Dressing, she considered scorning the boots. The wind rattled at the window panes and with a sigh, practicality (duty’s faithful spouse) had her lacing them up. They were certainly warmer than her worn pair and the leather of a quality she’d never owned before. 

They were a little stiff as she went down the stairs. Not army issue, obviously, so they must’ve been from before the war. Perhaps worn a handful of times before he left. Had he walked down these stairs in them? Intent on doing what? Surely not manual labor, but perhaps even then he had a call to pace his grounds and look wistfully out to the sea. 

It was oatmeal for breakfast, she decided, needing something that would stick to her ribs with bland utility. While it cooked, she stared up at the ceiling and tried to reconcile her late night confrontation with the dull reality of the present. 

Had the pictures been pried from the walls by a vengeful spirit out of a lurid story? Or was there some quirk of the house, an ill timed settling? Had she imagined the pacing? The laughter? 

Brienne had given up on religion long before the war. She could not see the cruelty of man and imagine it approved of by some benevolent being. It seemed a luxury to believe such things. A luxury she could not afford. Even as a child, she hadn’t indulged much in imagining monsters under the bed. There were enough real life boogeymen that it didn’t seem worth the bother. 

Yet, willful ignorance was equally unacceptable. The evidence accumulating before her painted a picture that was difficult to explain away. She heaped oatmeal into both their bowls, seeded them liberally with raisins and headed upstairs. 

She knocked, trying to compose herself into blank neutrality. 

No response. She opened the door with a sigh and entered into the once more dark bedroom. By now she knew just where to set the tray without looking, before crossing to the windows. She pulled back the curtains. 

“Time to wake up,” she announced to the room at large, then leaned in to lift the window pane. 

There was movement down below, the flutter of a loose white shirt in the wind. It was Mr. Lannister and she leaned out to make out what was happening. He was sitting on the edge of the cliff, legs dangling out. She turned to the room, a fast double-check. The bed was empty. The floor was devoid of a sprawled body. 

Then she was running, pelting down the stairs and around the too large house. It loomed over her, all it’s beauty temporarily lost under the roiling dark sky. 

“Mr. Lannister!” she called out before he was even in sight, her voice torn away in the wind. “Mr. Lannister!” 

As he came into view, she could see that he was barely even holding on to the edge. He looked like a child, his heels beating on the rock. 

“JAIME!” she said desperately as the wind gusted in the wrong way. He was a solidly built man, but for an instant she could only see him being carried away, out to sea as subject to it’s whims as a piece of paper. 

He stirred, looking over his shoulder at her. A thin smile creased his face, amused and exhausted, then it came away, replaced by slack blankness. His body went limp and it was only by luck that he fell on his back, away from the edge. 

“Mr. Lannister,” she reached him at last, dragging his limp body away from the edge. 

She shook him once, twice, and his eyes slowly opened, a sliver of color in his ashen face. 

“Miss Tarth,” he slurred. “We must stop meeting like this.” 

“You idiot,” she hissed and leaned over him, pressing her forehead to his chest. “I hate this place. I hate you. I hate...I hate whatever is happening here. I hate it all, do you hear me?” 

“That seems like a logical reaction,” he stared up at the sky. “We might have to skip our walk today. I think it’s going to rain.” 

She closed her eyes, reassuring herself that his chest was rising and falling. Eventually she got to her feet and managed to get him to his. He leaned heavily on her as if he were drunk again though she knew in her heart that liquor had nothing to do with it. 

“I have seen so much darkness,” she told him though she wasn’t sure he was listening. “But I do not believe in evil, Mr. Lannister. I do not wish to be convinced otherwise.” 

His breath was ragged and she concentrated on getting him up the stairs and into his room. Sitting him on the bed, she finally put her fingers to his pulse. His blood pressure was low. His eyes were dilated, one pupil larger than the other. Dismayed, she ran her fingers through his hair and found a cut at the back, blood long dried.

“You hit your head,” she told him. 

“Did I?” he nodded slowly. “That would explain a few things.” 

“You’ll have to stay awake for awhile. Do you remember what happened?” 

“I was eating dinner with you,” he blinked very slowly. “We had stew. You told me about Billie Holiday and it was....” 

“Anything after that?” 

He shook his head, “And then I heard you call my name. My Christian name. Such liberties, harpy.” 

“You are a very troubled man,” she checked his bandages. They were bloodied, naturally. “I am the Sisyphus of bandages. Why hasn’t your brother found a doctor?” 

“I think we both know why,” he yawned, seemingly untroubled in his now concussed state. 

“No sleeping,” she said firmly. 

“How do you want me to stay awake?” He frowned. 

After some trial and error, they wound up in the armchairs by the fireplace. She ventured downstairs and reluctantly picked up one of the novels that had his initials in the cover. When she brought it up, he only shrugged, 

“I was never much of a reader, but Tyrion makes the damn things multiply.” 

She opened the volume, the pages bore the signs of past handling, so who knew how sincere he was being. She began to read, 

“Samuel Spade’s jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible v of his mouth,” she read, “His nostrils curved back to make another, smaller, v. His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal. The v motif was picked up again by thickish brows rising outward from twin creases above a hooked nose, and his pale brown hair grew down— from high flat temples—in a point on his forehead. He looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.” 

“You can say it,” Mr. Lannister snorted. 

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Brienne lied and continued on. 

He didn’t really look at all like that. His face was less an assemblage Vs and more of right angles. She didn’t spend time observing this, instead concentrating on reading and occasionally peppering him with check in questions to make sure he was awake. Even if it meant breaking her own rules, she brought him up lunch which they ate together by the fire. The flames that she also kept fed, worried that the cold might worsen his condition. 

They set aside the book after lunch and after some hesitation, he suggested cards. She fetched her solitaire deck from downstairs. 

“Do you know cribbage?” 

“Well enough,” she shuffled, bridging the cards easily. 

After her shifts on the ward or an intense surgery, she could often be found at bedsides with a deck of cards. For the first and perhaps only time in her life, she had made friends easily. They wanted her brisk attention to distract from the boredom. Maybe they would’ve enjoyed a prettier nurses attention, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

Mr. Lannister was a fair player and about equally matched. They traded wins as the sun slunk down. They talked little.

Come evening, she waited for him to tell her to go. To bring him dinner. Instead, he glanced at the clock, 

“Should we adjourn downstairs?” 

And so they ate dinner together again at the table. Part of her braced for retaliation, but there were no bumps or thumps. Just the steady demolishing of Walda’s potato soup. His appetite was good which was reassuring. 

There were so many questions she wanted to ask, explanations that she wanted to shake out of his already abused body. But she could not bring herself to ask them. They stuck in her mouth and crowded her throat. 

“I’ve been riding Thunder,” she said instead of a thousand other things. “She’s a good horse.” 

“I know,” he made a vague gesture towards the kitchen window. “I can see you. It’s good, she needs the exercise.” 

“How long have you had her?” 

“Seven years,” he smiled wanly. “There’s a good breeder in Lannisport. Father bought all his horses from them for years. Mostly in the same line.” 

“You know, you could ride her still,” why was she saying this? Why this instead of the pressing fears? It seemed asinine, but...this was why she was here. Not to solve something beyond her understanding. “A mounting stool and one hand on the reins is really all that’s required.” 

“I’ll be on the ground before she’s halfway out of the stable.” 

“You never fell learning to ride?” she huffed. “You never got bruised or thrown?”

“Of course, I did,” he raised his chin. “Maybe I’m not eager to do it again.” 

“I can tell you that buttoning yourself up in a stuffy dark room is far less interesting than riding out on her back.” 

“And steal your afternoon pastime?”

“There are four horses in that stable,” she shrugged. “A waste in any case.” 

“...I know what you’re trying to do and it’s foolish.” 

“I’m trying to keep you alive,” she set down her spoon so carefully, it made no sound at all against the bowl. “A little cooperation would be appreciated.” 

“I’m trying, harpy,” he sighed, “believe me, I am.”

After some consideration, she let him go to sleep without intending to wake him. His eyes had righted themselves and he was lucid enough. Yet, she could not simply retire after the scene that morning. She pulled the covers off her bed, gathered her pillows and once she was sure he was settled for the evening, she made a bed before her door. If he tried to leave, the door would hit her first. She kept on her clothes and her boots, ready to do what must be done. It was hardly the worst place she had spent the night. 

_The hospital was full. Each bed needed triage and while other bodies clad in white raced around her, none seemed to pause. Brienne started writing intake notes, asking the men for their names, checking slick dogtags when they could not answer. It was loud outside, a whistle of bombs creasing the air._

_She worked and worked, but there seemed no end to the agony, no doctors coming to take her notes, no other nurses to aid her. At last, her hand was forced and she had to go out of the ward to seek someone’s help. She could not manage alone._

_The door out of the ward was stuck. With gritted teeth, she shoved her shoulder to it and after a brutal slam, it opened and she stumbled into the next room._

_All noise ceased. Before her was a nursery, softly lit by moonlight. The woman soldier sat beside a cradle, her hair a curtain over the baby within. She was singing, soft and sweet. Just a single thin voice in the aching calm._

_“I’m looking for a doctor,” Brienne said apologetically._

_The woman soldier looked up from the cradle. There was no baby beneath her hair. Just that terrible rusty stain on the mattress. There were tears in those too blue eyes. She held out her hands to Brienne, a mute plea._

_“I don’t know how to help you. Tell me how to help you,” Brienne swallowed thickly. The hands opened and closed, grasping at the air, the woman’s face tinged blue, her lips all wrong. Brienne tried to go to her, but the air was too thick._

_The woman’s mouth gaped open and water flowed out, the crash of the waves on the cliff. Brienne began to drown._

__

The daylight woke her, stabbing into her eyes. Her head was pounding and her neck all out of sorts. She rolled her shoulders, the joints cracking. Then she stretched upwards, sighing as her spine realigned. Light filtered in through her open bedroom door. She put down a hand to floor to lever herself up and felt dampness. 

There were two wet footprints on the carpet beside her. 

She heard the front door swing open and she got to her feet. Walda’s voice carried upstairs and she let out a breath. It was fine. She was fine. The makeshift pallet went back to her bed and a quick check proved that Mr. Lannister had made it to his bed and seemed to be sleeping normally. 

When she got downstairs, Walda had already prepared a tray, 

“No need for you to waste your time on it,” Walda was in a new dress, a deep forest green. “Even if he’s being a lazybones. Earned though, poor thing.”

“You look pretty,” Brienne offered weakly. 

“Thank you!” she beamed back at her. “My husband had it made for me for the holidays. Silly old dear, I could’ve made it for less, but oh, it is nice to have something new I must say. It’s been ages and it was so dear of him to think of it, don’t you think? If you have the choice, Miss, marry an older man. Much more attentive, all over.” 

Her talk made everything that happened the day before seem as distant as the moon. The chirpy normalcy steeled Brienne and she brought up the tray. Mr. Lannister was awake and dressed, seemingly mostly recovered. On their walk he even made a few small comments about the weather which was only getting colder. 

“Miss!” Podrick called as they came back into view of the house. “Miss!” 

“Yes?” she walked briskly towards him. 

“You have guests, Miss. Or they claim to be!” he was headed down the drive and she had to rush to catch up with him. “I wouldn’t let them until you said for sure. You didn’t say were expecting anyone.” 

“I certainly wasn’t,” she agreed. 

But when they reached the gates, she spotted the Rolls and the man behind the wheel. His face was impossible to mistake. A window rolled down and he leaned out of it, 

“Excuse me, Miss, but I’m looking for the best nurse this side of the Atlantic?’ 

“Jon!” she went to the gate. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, you have an insistent admirer.” 

“It’s okay, Pod,” she assured him. “I know him.” 

He glanced at her as if triple checking then unchained the gates. The Rolls came through, coming to a stop before her. The backdoor opened and in a cloud of sweet perfume, pastel green, and a joyous shout, 

“Brienne!” 

“Sansa!” she felt her eyes burn as she reached for her friend. Their bodies collided in a messy pinwheel of limbs for a full bodied hug. 

It had been over a year since Brienne had reluctantly driven away from Winterfell to return to the war. She had accompanied Sansa back when her brother died. They had known each other only through letters since then. 

“I couldn’t let 1946 to begin without seeing you again,” Sansa pulled back, holding onto Brienne’s forearms. “I couldn’t bear it.” 

“Nor me,” Jon called from the car, “but perhaps we can reunite closer to the house? I have a few bags to bring in.” 

“I’ll take those, sir,” Podrick offered politely though he looked entirely wrong footed. 

“Run ahead and tell Walda to make up two rooms,” Brienne decided. “I can handle the bags.” 

“Oh, just one,” Sansa tucked her hair behind her ear, “we can certainly share. We can stay up and chat like old times.”

Brienne exhaled, two wet footprints in the forefront of her mind, “That sounds like fun.”


	7. The Dancing Guests and an Open Door

“Harpy,” Mr. Lannister cornered her as she headed back downstairs after placing Sansa’s bags in her room, “when you said you had friends in the north, I didn’t think you meant the Duke of Wall and the Duchess of Winterfell!” 

“Why would you think that?” she shrugged. “They’re just Sansa and Jon to me. He didn’t even have a title when we met.” 

“Because he’s the lost heir to the throne! You’re just casually friendly with two of the most powerful people outside the immediate royal family?” 

“We were nurses together. Sansa volunteered,” she swept an errant hair back from her forehead, tucking it away, “and Jon nearly died at the Battle of Kursk. I happened to be the one that was there when he was brought in.” 

“Which means you probably saved his life,” his eyes narrowed and Brienne didn’t offer a reply. “They seem fond of you. Why aren’t you living with them and enjoying the lap of luxury?”

“I don’t care for luxury,” she started down the stairs. “What good is it doing you?” 

It was so pleasant to be among her friends again that she was nearly able to forget everything else. Sansa made pleasent conversation with Walda until it was clear the woman entirely forgave her for such a last minute visit. Then they went to the stables and everyone agreed that Thunder was a fine horse and gave her many pettings. Podrick was also easily charmed, offering Sansa an apple to feed the horse of the hour. Brienne showed them the grounds and to her delight, Jon was as thrilled as she thought about the reclamation of nature, 

“See,” he pointed to the sapling tree pushing up through cracked stone, “that’s what I want for Wall. Let the land take back what it lost and once I’m gone, I'll deed it as a park if I can.” 

“Excellent idea,” Sansa winked at Brienne. Clearly she had heard this particular talk more than once. “I’m sure you’ll make something beautiful and wild.” 

It was a happily rowdy dinner, all three of them bustling about the kitchen with all the lights in the bottom floor turned on and their voices filling the suddenly warm rooms. 

“Your gift!” Sansa jumped to her feet when the last plate was dutifully washed. “I nearly forgot. Do you think we can use the sitting room?” 

“It should do,” Jon trotted after her surveying the space. Before Brienne could protest, the two of them were shifting furniture around and rolling up the rug until there was plenty of cleared space on the fine wood floors. 

“I don’t think-” 

“Just wait here,” Sansa squeezed Brienne’s forearm once. “I promise it’s for your own good.” 

“Should I be afraid?” she turned to Jon, who was repressing a wry smile. 

“No. I don’t think so. Unless you fear fun, which is a reasonable response on occasion.”

A wooden case was in Sansa’s hands when she came back down and she set it gently on a side table. With a flick, the clasp opened and to reveal a gorgeous turntable with all the knobs shining like polished brass. 

“It was Robb’s,” Sansa slid her hands off of it. “He kept it in his room, so we had another for the household.” 

“I can’t accept that,” Brienne protested. 

“You can and you will,” she flipped her hair over her shoulder. It had loosened from it’s pins over the course of the day. It gave her a coquettish look, sweet and coaxing. “Along with a few records.” 

There were only a handful, a mix of things, but among them was Glenn Miller. With a wink, Sansa put on ‘American Patrol’. She held out her hands to Brienne and they fell into the brisk steps they had learned from the other nurses on the nights they could afford to dance before catching a few hours of sleep between horrors. It had been the first time Brienne had found comradery among women. Once found, she was unsure how she had ever lived without it.

Jon clapped along on the side, looking pleased as they spun around the room. When the next song came on, bright and lively, he intercepted them. He took up Brienne’s hands and while he couldn’t match Sansa’s speed, he was a steady partner, who was happy to follow her lead 

Of course it slowed eventually as music in a party, even a small one, was bound to do. Jon’s arms opened to Sansa and she flowed into them like they had done so many times. They were a handsome couple. Brienne leaned in the doorway watching them sweep over the floor as if their feet couldn’t touch the ground. Jon whispered something and Sansa laughed, a bubbling sound that she wouldn’t have been capable of just two years ago. 

“That’s a match,” Mr. Lannister’s voice startled her, but she schooled her expression. “They own a fourth of the country between them, you know. Together they could change the world” 

“I don’t think they care to do that.” 

The pair were twirling obliviously on, light and beaming with quiet joy.

“No, I don’t think they do.” 

Sansa changed the record when it ran down, apparently oblivious to the small audience, and a woman crooned out, 

_Stars shining bright above you, night breezes seem to whisper I love you..._

“Well, Miss Tarth,” Mr. Lannister offered her his hand, “I can take you for a turn if you think you can find it in you to let me lead.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she glanced at Jon and Sansa, still lost in their own little world. 

_Dream a little dream of me... Say ‘nighty-night’ and kiss me._

“What’s ridiculous?” he scoffed. “Can’t two people take a night off and have a dance?” 

“A night off from what?” but she was already caving. It was ridiculous. But he was nearly her height, and while the wrist that touched her hip ever so lightly ended there, she still felt that he held her fast. 

_While I'm alone and blue as can be.... Dream a little dream of me_

“Let’s say from all of it,” their fingers slid together. A breath and then they stepped into the unknown as one. 

_Stars fading but I linger on, dear....Still craving your kiss_

The trouble with a partner that could actually look her in the eye was that he did just that. It was nothing like the shaving incident or any of the times he had stared daggers at her to make her uncomfortable. It was just them, moving in coordinated circles. For a dizzying moment, she was certain they were breathing in time with one another. 

_Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you.... Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you_

He smelled good and she realized his hair was clean, his clothes fresh. Had he heard the music and performed ablutions that were usually scattershot? 

“You know, Miss Tarth,” he turned them slowly, “I've grown almost fond of you.” 

“Don’t strain yourself,” she huffed, but she knew there was something like a smile on her lips. 

_dream a little dream of me..._

And it was over as soon as it had begun. He gave her a stiff formal bow with what might’ve been a wink and then he was striding away, up the stairs and gone as if he’d never held her hand at all. 

Sansa twirled back into her radius, “Was that your boss?” 

“My patient,” she corrected absently. 

“Oh, Brienne,” Sansa touched her arm. “What are you doing?” 

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” 

Before heading to bed, Brienne had a last problem to solve. She couldn’t very well sleep in front of Mr. Lannister’s door tonight and frankly, it was an unsustainable plan. After some thought, she went quietly downstairs and lifted the bells from the backdoor that once would’ve been used to signal deliveries and then looped them around Mr. Lannister’s door. If he left in the middle of the night, that should be enough to wake her. 

Satisfied, she took her turn in the bathroom and slipped into her bedroom feeling substantially lighter than usual. 

Unfortunately, it turned out that the turntable wasn’t the only gift Sansa had brought though it was the most welcome. It wasn’t until they were both bundled into Brienne’s bed, that Sansa pulled out the folder. 

“Mother kept clippings on nearly everything during the war,” she explained, holding it in both her hands like it might detonate. “It was so much, I thought about just throwing them out entirely or using them for kindling. But when you wrote to say that you were working for the Lannisters... you have to understand, they have a reputation among titled families. Manipulative, cold. We never associated with them when I was young. So I went through the filings.” 

Brienne thought of the warmth of Mr. Lannister’s hand in hers. The way he looked lost in stolen moments. How Mr. Tyrion had gently bandaged her face and given her every chance to escape. 

“You mentioned something like that in your letter.” 

“I didn’t know the extent of it. The war had already started,” carefully, the folder opened. "I wasn't keeping tabs on old families." 

The newsprint was cheap and the paper thin. It was the sort of onion sheets that had become commonplace again with shortages. The first headline was small, a paragraph cut free of a larger page, 

_Baratheon Tragedy in Coventry Blitz_

The spare lines explained the loss of an infant son, born to Robert and Cersei Bartheon only a few months before. One among many who lost their lives in the brutal bombing. 

Sansa practically skipped over it as if it barely mattered, but Brienne’s dream of the night before swam before her eyes. For a moment it was as real as Sansa beside her. The cradle, the woman. The stain. 

_Lord Slays Wife in Murder-Suicide_

“Oh,” Brienne clenched her hands together. 

“He stabbed her to death then shot himself,” Sansa shook her head. “And this was the only trace I could find of the story. They covered it up, Brienne. Made her and him just..disappear. Like it was nothing. Stannis took over Robert’s lands and Renly’s. Just gobbled them up and the Lannisters were complicit without a further word. No inquiry to speak of, no reckoning. It was in the middle of the war. It must’ve been easy to make it all go away.” 

“Not that easy,” she said grimly. 

“Easy enough.” Sansa turned the page again. 

_Obituary: Lord Tywin Lannister, age 64, died of a long illness in his country home. He is survived by his two sons. His wife Joanna passed away twenty years ago and he never remarried, a devoted husband to the end of his days._

“I’m not sure what’s nefarious about an older man dying.” Brienne said dryly. 

“Tywin Lannister wasn’t a sick man,” Sansa frowned, “Arya met him near the end. She said he was fit enough to nearly chase her across a field and with the footrace when she was caught eavesdropping at a party.” 

Brienne frowned, “So what do you think happened?” 

“I don’t know. But he died here. Like his wife. Like his daughter and her husband. And your Mr. Lannister doesn’t look well at all. This place, these people...” 

“Did you come here to remove me?” Brienne turned to her friend and Sansa shut the folder up. 

“I’m not delusional,” she snorted. “You go where you want to go or do what you think is best. I don’t pretend to have power over you, but your my friend and you should know all there is to know when you make a decision.” 

“I have a duty here.” 

“You have a duty to yourself,” Sansa said firmly and tucked the folder back into her own bag. “You gave your life to the war, and it was a great good thing that you did, but the war is over now. You can do what you like without a sour word or thought from anyone that cares about you.” 

“I was hired to do a job.” 

“People quit jobs every day.” 

“He needs me,” she looked away. 

“Like Renly did?” Sansa asked it softly and it still raked over Brienne’s nerves. She closed her eyes, breathing out slowly. 

“It’s different. Renly didn’t need me at all. Didn’t want me at all. We were just friends. No matter... no matter what I wanted, he never told me differently. I knew where we stood.” 

“And Mr. Lannister?” 

“He’s a mystery,” she admitted. “I’m not sure he knows what he wants, except to live. I want to be here to make sure that he does.” 

“All right,” Sansa laid a hand on her arm, “then do. But you know you can always come to Winterfell. We would have you at a moment’s notice.” 

“Thank you.” 

They went to sleep not long after or at least, made a show of it. Within a half-hour, Sansa was slipping out of bed. 

“Where are you going?” Brienne asked drowsily. 

“...will you judge me very much if I tell you?” 

“You and Jon?” 

“And not a ring between us,” she agreed, her voice heavy in the dark. “I know how bad of me it is, but neither of us are ready to marry.” 

Brienne rolled over. In the moonlight, Sansa looked ethereal. Her nightgown was white, her face a pale oval. She stood uncertain, halfway toward the door. Perhaps Brienne could shame her back to bed, they could talk in the morning about what was proper and the dangers of pregnancy among other things. 

But Sansa was no fool. She knew the risks and the pitfalls more than most. The war and it's fallout had aged them both before their time. 

“Tell him good night for me,” Brienne said instead, and deliberately closed her eyes. She smiled as she heard the door open slowly, the soft footsteps in the hall and Jon’s sleepy welcome, just the faintest murmur creasing the air. 

It wasn’t such a bad thing for this house to have a little love in it. 

Hours later, Brienne woke to a heavy tread of returning steps. The door had been left ajar, a slice of light crossing her room. A shadow intercepted it. She yawned, 

“Sansa?” 

“Miss Tarth,” it was Mr. Lannister’s voice, but crisper than usual. Almost over-enunciated. 

“Sir,” she sat bolt upright in bed, pulling her covers over herself. 

A hand extended, something dangling from it. Then a clatter and a dull thud. For a dreadful moment she thought it a piece of him, some fleshy bloody thump. Only the faint clang of metal as he kicked it towards her, told her it was the bells from his doorknob. 

“Do you know the trouble with opening doors, Miss Tarth?” 

“I-” 

“The trouble with opening a door for someone is that once you do,” the slice of light got smaller and smaller, the door slowly closing, “just about anyone can get in.” 

The latch clicked and the heavy tread retreated. 

Brienne didn’t fall back to sleep for a long time. 


	8. The Stones of the Glass House

“Sir!” Podrick greeted Mr. Lannister with something approaching a smile. “Miss said you’d be coming by today.” 

“Did she?” Mr. Lannister looked into the stable as if it held dark secrets. 

“I did,” Brienne walked in, head held high. 

In the days since Sansa and Jon had departed, she had been waging a very careful battle. Each day, she came armed with a treat. A carrot or an apple or a sugar cube offered at the door of a stall. Each day, she won over her opponent with a careful step forward. And yesterday at last, she had mounted the other mare to Podrick’s startled joy. 

She had done well enough that Lightening came forward when she walked in and Brienne dutifully offered the apple in her pocket which the horse ate after a soft, approving nicker. 

“What witchcraft is this?” Mr. Lannister asked dryly. 

“There’s no magic required where persistence and kindness will do,” she said tartly. “Now, are we going for a ride or not?” 

Lightning accepted her saddle and then, to Brienne’s great relief, the rider as well. Mr. Lannister watched her warily as if waiting for disaster, but when none was forthcoming, he reluctantly allowed Podrick to help him mount. Thunder looked pleased by this turn of events, prancing out of the stable with head held high. 

“Have mercy on me,” Mr. Lannister laughed. “Proud beast.” 

They started out gently, a loop around the ring that Podrick maintained for exercise, but both horses were eager to be gone and once it was clear that Mr. Lannister could keep his seat, he also seemed eager to be out. 

It was a cold clear day, cloudless for miles and despite the invisible barriers of distant property lines, it felt like being free. Of course Brienne had ridden like this every day for weeks, but it was different with a companion. Mr. Lannister was a good rider even as he figured out how to compensate. She thought idly of a hook of some kind. Usually the soldiers with such grievous wounds left her care before they reached that part of their rehabilitation, but she knew of such things. 

He’d have to heal first though. Even this morning before coming down, she had changed out his bandages and had she not known any better she would’ve said that the wound had happened days ago. Mr. Tyrion had called on New Year’s, half-drunk and not very merry with it. She had begged the phone off Mr. Lannister and reminded him of his promise to find a doctor. 

The connection had been poor and his response garbled. 

They rode out in a familiar direction, but Mr. Lannister led them down a side path that she hadn’t yet spotted. It was only just wide enough for the horses to go single file, but neither seemed perturbed. 

The trees parted to reveal a wide grotto paved in a grey rainbow of circular stones. From the center rose a graceful gazebo, walled in with glass. A few of the panes were cracked, the white paint peeling, but otherwise it looked intact. The wood wasn’t rotted and as they dismounted, Mr. Lannister followed the path over the stones and pulled open the creaky door. She followed him in. 

Despite the chill, it was delightfully warm. The glass walls acted as a greenhouse which had been discovered by the local weeds, pushing up through the planks of wood. The round stones had made it inside as well, loose here instead of cemented, spiraling out in their many shades from nearly pearly white to just off the deepest black. A single bench sat in the middle of the room and there Mr. Lannister sat down on one end. Brienne followed his lead and sat on the other side. 

It wasn’t a very big bench. 

He inclined his head, looking up at that vast blue sky through the glass domed roof. 

“My mother did the stone work,” he smiled faintly. “She used to drive us all the way down to the rocky beach and we would collect them in buckets. Only the smoothest and roundest would do. She learned how to mix the concrete herself, and she would lay each stone like it would unlock the secrets of the universe.”

“It’s fine work,” she was a little unnerved by how fine, the even round stones in their even round circles. 

“It’s outlasted her by over thirty years,” he sighed. “It’s good that Davos maintains it.” 

This was nowhere near the bits of land that Davos worked over, but the concrete was indeed free of weeds. Perhaps, he too found the peace of the spot appealing. 

“I can’t see Mr. Tyrion working on such a thing,” she admitted. 

Mr. Lannister shook his head, “She died birthing him. When he was old enough to walk so far, I took him here. He liked it well enough. Came this way to read when he needed to escape the house. We all used it for that at one time or another.” 

“I had the water,” she knotted her hands together in her lap. “Even after it took my brother. It was still a place to rest awhile.” 

“What was he like?” 

“Loud,” she spoke as if she might accidentally invoke that loudness, “funny. He could make my father laugh which is difficult. Strong too, he could lift me onto his shoulders even though he was still a boy himself. He was only fourteen when he died, you see.” 

“I’m sorry for your losses.” 

“As I’m sorry for yours,” she said and she meant it for all that they may visit on them. 

"You're too kind, Miss Tarth." 

"What was-"

“Robert got her in the bathtub,” he said quite suddenly, getting to his feet. He put one foot on a round stone and then the other, walking in a slow meditative circle, voice utterly calm. “Half-drowned her. She was six months pregnant, couldn’t fend him off. He dragged her down the hall, kicking and screaming. Threw her on my bed and slit her throat. Didn’t check to see if she was dead, just walked off to get drunk as a skunk. Tyrion and Father were gone for business, you see and the servants had been given a night off. It took her hours to die, he hadn’t cut deep enough for mercy. She just lay there, life leaking out of her.

“The body stayed there for days. The room was put to bed. I hadn’t been home except for a brief leave. When word came that Tyrion was heading back to the manor, Robert found some horrid strength and cast her body into the water. So I suppose the water got both of our siblings.” 

“That’s horrible,” Brienne stared at him, his careful emotionless steps seemed to bind her into place. “Why would he do such a thing?” 

“Why does any man do evil?” Mr. Lannister started the next circle. Not a circle. A spiral. It was bringing him back to the bench, moving in tighter and tighter loops around her. “For power. For pride. Eight years it took for him to get her pregnant, only for the Blitz to the child. Eight years of beatings and horror, only to have the antidote snatched away. When I was given leave for the funeral, I thought I would find her a wreck, but she was strong. 

“What was done was done. Whatever was wrong, it wasn’t with her. She was pregnant again soon enough, wasn’t she? And even Robert had to question that after so much failure...” 

Brienne had been quite good at math in school. No one had praised her for that and she had never boasted of it. But math had been soothing. Consistent. The straight lines of the numbers always behaved exactly as they were meant to behave. 

Human equations could be trickier. The way they came together and broke apart yielded far more remainders, trails of nonsensical outcomes. Yet, even with that in mind, Brienne thought she could see the terrible math here. The way two scared children might become two entwined adults. The way they might combat the horror of an abusive marriage with the only love they knew. 

“I knew a pair of twins when I was growing up,” she said because he seemed to expect her to speak and certainly the horrible math was not what she could put into words. “They claimed they could feel each other’s pain.” 

“I felt her die,” he hit the last stone, standing before her. “I was in the middle of a battle and I thought I’d been shot. But I knew even then that there was no blood. It wasn’t a wound of the body.” 

“Then of what?” 

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” He came down, down, kneeling before. It was obscene. Absurd. Her breath caught in her throat though he wasn’t really looking at her at all. “What remains of us if not the flesh?” 

The question hung in the soft warm air of the greenhouse. 

“I don’t know,” she swallowed around the words. 

Outside one of the horses huffed out a breath, the sound preternaturally loud. 

“You should go,” Mr. Lannister’s eyes settled on her own at last, gone from wherever they had traveled. “Tonight. This afternoon. Pack up your things. I’ll call Tyrion, arrange a severance payment. Enough for your little house in the great northern woods.” 

“Don’t be foolish,” she raised her chin. “It’s my duty to tend to you and I won’t abandon it.” 

“You’re the fool then,” but he said it so gently. So kindly. 

They rode back to the stables in silence. The sky was clear, but Brienne found a headache coming on, the kind that usually only formed in the worst kinds of storms.


	9. Where the Dust Will Not Settle

“Shelley is always saying she doesn’t care much for carrot cake, but I think she’s got an idea in her head that cake has to be all smooth and pretty to taste good. Could just be jealous too, everyone knows that Donna’s carrot cake is the best dessert at the church fair.” 

The crown molding had apparently been troubling Walda for some days. When Brienne insisted on helping, pointing out that she could reach far more easily, and wouldn’t even need the big ladder, just the little stepladder, Walda had accepted gratefully. Now Walda was meticulously wiping down the baseboard while Brienne did a bit more of a hatchet job on the ceiling. Motes of dust drifted down, caught in the breeze coming through the open front door. It was an unseasonably warm day, making the grounds muddy. 

“And I said to Donna that she should just ignore it anyway, what’s the use of listening to a sour critic when you’ve got so much praise? But those sour things do stick, I suppose, and you know-” 

The breeze went chill, flushing the room with cold in an instant. The door creaked on it’s hinges. Walda fell deadly silent, her rag swishing against the wood the only sound in the room. A heaviness came over Brienne and her arm fell to her side, clutching the feather duster. Her breath caught in her chest and refused to budge. 

The door creaked again and the cold fled as quickly as it had come. Walda was on her feet, quicker than Brienne had ever seen her move. She slammed the door shut and leaned against it. 

“Are you alright?” 

Walda turned to her, her face drawn white, but she only clapped her hands together and said, 

“Well, this place won’t clean itself will it?” 

“No, I suppose not,” though really, who was to say anymore? 

Brienne got back up and dislodged a bit of cobweb. Walda crossed back to where she’d been working, kneeling back down. She dampened her cloth and slid it down over the baseboard slowly. 

“Lord Lannister didn’t like us speaking while we worked,” she said quietly after a few more passes. “He preferred to pretend that we were a part of the house.” 

“I’ve met men like that,” Brienne glanced down, but Walda was intent on her work. Her tone was as casual as when she’d spoken of carrot cake. 

“You’ll have to forgive me saying so, and in his lordship’s own home, but he was...” Walda glanced up at her, “he was a right bastard. Right up until the moment he died.” 

“Oh,” Brienne blinked. She had never heard Walda swear before. “Did you take care of him when he was ill?” 

“That depends on what you call an illness.” 

“Only I thought he died of one.” 

“I suppose he did in a way,” Walda attacked a discolored patch of wood that would likely remain discolored until it decayed. “Would you mind terribly if I told you a bit of gossip about someone you actually know this one time?” 

“I don’t mind,” she said quickly. 

“When Mr. Tyrion was born, poor Lady Lannister died.” 

“Mr. Lannister told me.” 

“Mm,” Walda looked a little surprised, but went on, “the household was in a state and no one thought of that poor babe. My mum was nursing my little sister and she just plucked him up and took care of him, wet nurse and nanny for the first few months of his life until Lord Lannister made other arrangements. It was too late though. He might’ve been upstairs blood, but the downstairs adopted him.” 

“All of you?” Brienne’s passes with the feather duster slowed. 

“Oh yes, every one of us,” Walda nodded. “He lived downstairs for the most part, always wiggling away from his nannies. We’d feed him up and let him run around in the gardens. Mum used to say the only reason he lived was out of spite of Lord Lannister. Our spite and his, I think.” 

“I can well imagine that,” Brienne gave up on pretending to dust, sitting down on the top of the stepladder. “He seems to have quite a will.” 

“Eventually, he was sent to the boarding school Mr. Lannister attended,” Walda was still moving slowly along the baseboard, “When he came home, he’d learned all sorts of bad habits, but he was still our boy. When he brought home a wife, we were all a bit relieved to be honest.” 

“Mr. Tyrion was married?” Brienne tried to remember if she’d seen a photograph or some evidence in his office. 

“Her name was Tysha. She was sweet,” Walda sighed. “The world isn’t kind to sweetness nor does it make up for being as common as dirt when you marry a lord’s son. Tongues wagged about why and I’m sure the money didn’t hurt, but she was a dreamy thing and it was her little fairy tale, you know?” 

“Fairy tales can end badly.” 

“So they can. So they did. She lived here just three months. Lord Lannister had been seeing to business in France. When he came home, Tysha disappeared. Just vanished without a word. The marriage was annulled all in a day and poor Mr. Tyrion drank himself into such a stupor, we thought he might die.”

“Where did she go? Why?” Brienne was leaning forward so far that she almost toppled off the stepladder, just catching herself. 

“We didn’t know, not for years. The rumor was that she’d been...well. No kind of lady at all and it had all caught up with her,” Walda shook her head, “I don’t know much, but too many is a woman left with no prospects and nothing but herself to make do with. I don’t see why it should have mattered if Mr. Tyrion didn’t mind it.” 

“That sounds logical to me.” 

“Mm, uncommon though. In any case, Mr. Tyrion grew out of his wild ways a little. Maybe out of sadness, maybe spite. When Mrs. Baratheon passed on, Mr. Tyrion did all the funeral arrangements. He was the one who had to tell Mr. Lannister which is a phone call I don’t envy him,” her strong arms started to shake and Walda sat back on her heels, setting down the cloth at last. “Lord Lannister left the manor less and less after that. Never did call back most of the staff. Things got quieter, stiller. Sometimes it seemed no one even breathed in here.” 

“He’s the one that let this place to...” she trailed off, unwilling to say it, not wanting to offend Walda’s hard work to keep things from falling into decay.

“I suppose. We’d been waiting, you know. For more babies. For more life. And there it was snatched back. Lord Lannister would take these walks around the grounds, always inspecting and criticizing until they quit and just Davos was left. He stopped taking visitors or writing his letters. Just let Mr. Tyrion do all the hard things.” 

They both glanced at the heavy front door, now shut against the warm day. 

“A disease of the mind?” 

“Of the soul, I’d venture,” Walda twisted the cloth between her hands. “I was making a cold luncheon. I had the window open, it was summer, you know. And Davos was tending to the ivy, so we were having a little chat. Lord Lannister was out on one of his walks when Mr. Tyrion showed up. They were coming back towards the house. I wouldn’t eavesdrop, you know.” 

“I know,” Brienne assured her. “You couldn’t help, but hear.” 

“Yes,” Walda gave her a tight smile. “They were speaking of the recent death and Lord Lannister lamented the loss of a potential heir. Mr. Tyrion made a dark comment that if only Tysha had remained....well. You can guess. And Lord Lannister laughed at him. Laughed! And told him his dear wife had happily disappeared for a measly sum of two hundred pounds and called her some horrible things. Said that she was mostly likely dead of disease or weakness of spirit by now.” 

“He paid her off?” 

“That was what he said,” she shook her head. “I don’t know if I believe it, but I suppose Mr. Tyrion did. There was this...you know when silence is loud?” 

“I’m familiar,” all too familiar of late. 

“This was one of those loud silences and then this great crack like the manor itself had split in two. I came in here and laying right in the doorway was Lord Lannister. Sprawled out and emptied of life.” 

“Mr. Tyrion just...” 

“Of course not,” Walda wouldn’t meet her eyes. She double down on the dark splotch which could not be budged. “And it’s such a tragedy for a great lord to give into despair. Take his own life like that in front of his own child. The police agreed when we told them just that, poor Mr. Tyrion red-eyed from weeping behind us.” 

Hadn’t Sansa said that Lannisters had a way of making the news what they wanted? Brienne stood back up, following Walda’s lead and went about her work on the crown molding. Had Mr. Tyrion killed his own father? Did she begrudge him that? 

The afternoon light slanted through the windows, amber on the dark wood. There was a faint scent of lemon hanging in the air from Walda’s bucket. Very faintly she could hear Mr. Lannister’s steps on the floorboards, echoing through the quiet. 

When Walda left for the day, she gave Brienne a brisk shoulder pat and a careful glance that Brienne had taken pains to return. No secrets would leave Casterly Rock, at least none from her mouth. 

After dinner, Brienne headed upstairs to her room. She paused at the top of the stairs. The darkened hall of the abandoned wing nagged at her. There was no sounds from Mr. Lannister’s room, no sign of movement. She tapped her fingers against the bannister. 

There would be nothing there to answer the questions that the house insisted on posing to her. It was only closed up rooms and the smell of disuse. 

But she walked down into the darkness anyway. She switched on the lights, waiting as the remaining working bulbs warmed to their full brightness. Then she walked past Mr. Tyrion’s old room, past Mr. Lannister’s bloodied old bedroom and to the door at the end of the hall. The knob turned easily, willingly in her hand. 

The light switch gave her no trouble, the lamps bursting to life with eagerness. 

It was a beautiful bedroom. The burnished wood floors were partially covered by a delicate green rug with floral details bursting from every corner. All of the furniture was a deep brown, polished until it shone, brass finishing still gleaming. None of the dust she’d spent the afternoon cleaning away downstairs had dared to breath this doorway. The wallpaper was still creamy and striped with sage, unfaded by the sun thanks to heavy green curtains on the windows. A more modest bed was still made up like a confection, silky covers and fat pillows smoothed to perfection. 

There were no pictures, no paintings. No trace of a person that had lived her except for the glass of wine next to an empty bottle that was still somehow half-filled and clear of debris. There was a massive mirror over the bureau and Brienne turned to it reluctantly. She didn’t make a habit of studying her own face. Here in the sumptuous bedroom, she was certain she would only look more sallow and hard then usual like an old knife placed into a jewelry box. 

And perhaps she did and perhaps she did not, but she was not destined to find out. As soon as she looked into the glass, she saw a second face just behind her. A face now slowly becoming familiar and the sodden nightgown along with it. 

“Hello,” Brienne ventured stumbling. “Again.” 

The woman...no, she must be named. It did not do to pretend, not when one was well awake and unable to hide in the vagaries of dreams. Mrs Baratheon opened her mouth and Brienne braced herself. There was no gatling gun noise nor a rush of water. Only silence and the clear disdain on the other woman’s face as she tried to communicate. 

“Do you need my help?” Brienne asked. 

Mrs. Baratheon shook her head so quickly that her hair flew around her in a yellow cloud. 

“Do you want to hurt me?” 

Pursed lips, narrowed eyes and then a hand gesture that seemed to indicate both disinterest and dislike in an impressive way. 

“Then why do you keep appearing to me? What do you want?” 

Hands flew up in annoyance and then back down again. She huffed a breath that failed to crease the air. Was it possible that this apparition didn’t know it’s own purpose or was she simply unable to communicate it? 

“You’re hurting him,” Brienne said all at once. “Do you know that?” 

And the pretty trace transformed entirely to a rictus of rage. Brienne did not falter, refused to look away. Who knew if she so much as glanced in the wrong direction if Mrs Baratheon would simply cease to be once more? 

Mrs Baratheon growled soundlessly, her lips controting and she reached forward, but she seemed unable to reach Brienne as though they were separated by a great distance. When that failed she huffed again and her face relaxed back into it’s haughty mask. 

And she mouthed so clearly that it was impossible to miss, 

_Not me._


	10. White Blanket over the Copper Stain

Brienne considered herself a methodical person. She preferred to think things over before making a decision. She knew that often made others label her as slow or other less charitable terms. Her bigness seemed to bring that out, an assumption that she must shamble through life both physically and mentally. And generally, she let them keep their assumptions. It was no matter to her if a passing man or woman thought her dull, she knew the truth. 

Yet, she prolonged speaking to Mr. Lannister of what she had seen. Surely it would be the easiest path to put the words ‘Your sister’s ghost claims you’re being injured by a different ghost, is that true, sir?” For as outlandish as it might sound, Mr. Lannister had not gone to great lengths to pretend that they weren’t haunted. 

They stayed behind her teeth. Every time she thought of the woman in the mirror, her throat tightened and her skin froze. As a girl in country, she had been fearless, as a nurse in the heart of bloody war, she had never shirked or turned her back on the most hideous of wounds. Even corpses hadn’t shaken her. Had it not been her own arms that lifted Renly from the hospital bed and onto the cart that would begin his journey to the grave? 

Those had been things she understood. The baseness of life and death, the fragility of the body, those were timeless and known. Death would come and she had always been prepared for that, drinking down the bitter draught of her lost family so young. 

The idea that some form of it went beyond...that was out of her ken. Her territory was the brutal line between life and death, not the horrible muck that apparently lay just beyond. The only church she’d been raised in was a jazz club, the only god she knew was the finality of a gun. No creatures hid in the dark, but men with dark hearts and that was more than enough for her. 

So no, she could not put to words what she had seen. 

And she was not given enough time to find them.

The snow storm came out of nowhere, a thick icy blindside right on the cusp of spring that covered the grounds in a dense whiteness. Podrick cut a path to the house to check on them in the early morning, letting them know the road out was blocked. 

“Thank you, Podrick,” Mr. Lannister was at the window in the sitting room, looking over the field, “why don’t you take the rest of the day after the horses are taken care of? Take something out of the fridge for dinner. It’s too cold to be puttering around today.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Pod looked to Brienne as if she might have something to say on the matter. 

“There’s biscuits too,” she recalled. “Might as well have some of those.” 

Walking back, Pod had a hefty hamper and looked well-pleased at his morning’s labor despite wading through piles of snow. Brienne, on the other hand, already felt unpleasantly cramped and stuck. She had read most of the interesting books in the place, listened to the few records Sansa had given to her until she had memorized all the songs. Alongside Walda and Davos, they’d taken care of every regular and irregular chore that the usable parts of the house could need. 

“Will you climb the walls next?” Mr. Lannister asked as she paced the floors. 

“Perhaps with the correct equipment,” she muttered. 

“Sit down,” he laughed at her. “There must be some way to keep you from dashing through the place like a wild horse.” 

They had played so many hours of cards that she could not reckon with another minute of them, so he dug out a chess set from the shelves. 

“I’m not particularly good,” he warned. 

“I don’t know how to play at all.” 

That occupied a few hours, learning how the pieces moved and figuring out simple strategies. Outside the wind began to howl, kicking up the top layer of fine powder and swirling it up into the air. It hit the windows like a handful of pebbles, echoing. 

For something to ease her restlessness, she spent the afternoon with a half-broken shovel trying without much success to clear the front steps. By the time she gave up, she was sweaty and annoyed, but at least a little tired. She was about to head upstairs for a shower when there was a great echoing ‘BANG’. 

The lights went out. For a moment, she could hear the scream of a falling bomb and was certain that none of this ridiculous ghost business would matter if the Blitz got her at last. His voice vanished her momentary foolishness, 

“Damn it,” he emerged from his room. In the growing dark, he was a shadow, moving slowly towards her. “Miss Tarth?” 

“Here,” she called from the bottom of the staircase. “What do you think happened?” 

“The house runs off some generators, but they’re wired outside. The connection must’ve been torn out with all the wind,” as if on queue, another gale flared up. It’s screech was more audible without the low noises of a powered house. “Suppose we’ll have to eat whatever is most likely to spoil tonight. Who knows when we’ll be able to get it back on?” 

The furnace in the belly of the house had gone silent and the temperature had noticeably dropped. There was plenty of wood in the kitchen at least, so between them they got a fire started in the old fireplace there. 

“We should stick to just a few rooms,” Mr. Lannister said thoughtfully as he prodded the fire to life. “I can sleep in the chair in my room, so we can take turns stoking the flames.” 

“I don’t think-” 

“Oh, I promise not to mar your reputation,” he snorted. “Or whatever other asinine argument you’re going to make. I’d prefer not to freeze in my bed because I slept through a fire going out.” 

“...fine.” 

If she dressed that bed for the night in her pajamas that had the most buttons that was only sensible because of the cold. 

“I can take the first shift,” he said distantly as she tentatively walked into his room. It was different in the near dark. There was a kerosene lantern on the table and the fire in the fireplace, but they seemed to only emphasize the blackness than illuminate it. 

His bed was far larger than hers and smelled of cedar. She was sure she’d never fall asleep, able as she was to see his profile flickering in and out of focus with the lamp. But shoveling had taken something out of her. She drifted off despite herself. 

In the night, the bed dipped. She only half woke, stranded in that plane between dreams and reality. The fire was still alive, arching shadows over the walls. A body slid between the covers. It stayed on the other side of the bed, so she let the tidal wave of sleep carry her back under. 

She rose again when a chill got to her. The lump in the bed beside her was snoring faintly and the fire had definitely died down. 

“You were supposed to wake me and stay in the chair,” she grumbled to no response. 

Rising to her feet, she crossed the room. The kerosene lantern had gone out and she had only the last licks and embers of the fireplace to guide her. After a near miss with one of the armchairs, she was able to sink to her knees and carefully add in wood. It took some time to encourage the flames back up to a point where they’d actually warm the place. 

The heat felt good and she sat there for some time, thinking of nothing as she warmed her hands. Eventually though, she was too tired to continue kneeling there. Maybe she should’ve taken the chair for herself, but why bother when propriety had already been shattered? 

She lifted the comforter and slid beneath. Then nearly fell out again as his eyes shot open, glittering in the dark, 

“You let the fire die,” she chided. 

“Did I?” He seemed lucid and calm. “My apologies. I nodded off in the chair.”

“And then you came to bed.”

“Mm,” he stretched, shifting the covers minutely. “What time is it?” 

“I’ve no idea,” she admitted. “Still dark, but who knows with the storm what that means?” 

“I can’t remember the last time we had one like this. When we were children, maybe. The house wasn’t wired yet though, no lights to go out. We used to bundle up just like this on a cold night. Cersei would even let Tyrion join us if it was cold enough, just to make enough warmth.” 

“We had a pot bellied stove in the kitchen,” Brienne could remember the smell of hot metal creeping through the house. “In winter, Dad would drag a mattress into the living room and let me sleep there. We didn’t get electricity until I was sixteen or so. Too far out for most of the local lines really.” 

“Must’ve been a big day when you did.” 

“I turned on every light in the house when my Dad wasn’t around,” she admitted with a quiet laugh. “It was like magic for the first few months. Until the bill came due.” 

“Was he angry with you?” 

“No. He understood. And he wasn’t quick to anger, anyway,” she could remember his heaving sigh and how they’d had to scheme together to earn the extra money that month. “He always made me feel like we were in things together. A team.” 

“Sounds like magic,” he might’ve meant to tease, but it fell flat. Lonesome. 

“Surely,” and she did not think about the mirror. Just a picture. Just a dead photo on the wall, “there was your sister, were you not a team?” 

“I thought we were,” he turned, the flashing of his eyes in the dark lost to the ceiling. “But even back then we had to fight for every scrap of privacy or togetherness. It was like a game, but if we lost than we might not see anyone, but our tutors for weeks. We knew every squeaky floorboard in that hallway, every noise that might wake someone in the house. I used to think it was fun.” 

“When did it stop being fun?” 

“When the stakes became her life and we lost.” 

“I’m-”

“No, don't say sorry, please. We sacrificed too much that wasn't ours to give to be worth any pity,” his hand waved in the dark, scattering shadows. “We were vicious and unkind. Anyone that stood between us was eviscerated soundly.” 

“You seem to have grown out of it. Mostly.” 

“Wonderful, _now_ you choose to have a sense of humor.” 

“I’m very funny,” she said as dryly as possible, “it’s not my fault you’d prefer to make me irritable.” 

“I thought I’d become a rather model patient,” he sniffed. “You can trot me out as a reference when you move on.” 

Moving on, she closed her eyes and tried to picture that. Obviously, it would happen. The day would come when Mr. Tyrion would surmise that his brother was healed as he’d ever get and she’d likely be gently dismissed with a good reference. They’d never speak again, what cause would they have? She was just an employee and he was a lord. A lord who would again be alone in a house full of ghosts.

“Miss Tarth?” 

“Mm?” 

“I thought you’d drifted off?” 

“Why would I do that? It’s only the wee hours of the morning.” 

“My apologies.” 

“No, go on, tell me why you prodded at me.” 

“I didn’t even touch you.” 

“Mr. Lannister, honestly.” 

“Only...” the covers moved and there were his eyes again, damn them, “only that I wanted to say thank you. I know I can be a bit unbearable and this particular situation is especially trying. And yet, you’ve been unwavering. A true rock.” 

“My finest quality: being a stone.” 

To her great shock, a warm enveloped her hand. His fingers were long and wound around hers easily. Then they went still, waiting to be thrown off. 

“Good night again, Miss Tarth.” 

“Good night, Mr. Lannister.” 

She would tell him in the morning, she resolved. Maybe they would never speak again when she left her, but they must be something like friends now. And friends would not withhold such a thing. 

It was unfortunate that she woke in the morning to a fire that had gone out and the raging, bodiless scream of a dead woman. The room was frozen and Cersei was spilling her war cry in every single corner of it. 

“Get your filthy whore ass out of his bed and go find him!”


	11. Their Furious Will

Brienne went to the window, but a light snow was still falling, enough to obscure the view. Whatever power had given Cersei a voice must’ve been spent for she spoke no more. It was bitter cold in the house now, her breath catching in front of her. Quickly, Brienne pulled on a pair of boots, a sweater over her pajama top and pulled her coat around her as she headed down the stairs. 

When she reached the ground floor, there was music playing. Insistent and faint, it sounded like a recording of an event, people’s voices murmuring below. The record player was still in the sitting room, but the music seeming to come from nearly anywhere else. She turned in a slow circle, until she faced the double doors that had been closed and silent since her arrival. Likely they had been so for many years before. 

Now they were spread wide open. Brienne went back for her trusty fireplace poker, then returned, moving slowly towards them. 

It was the ballroom Mr. Lannister had described, wide and empty. But the lights were somehow on in here, despite the darkness that still reigned in the rest of the house. The music was louder, many strings being elegantly plucked from the beyond. Brienne stood in the doorway, aghast. The doors were locked fast. What caused Mr. Lannister to open them? And if he had, what was the music? The lights? 

Carefully, she went in. There were other sounds that she could make out now. Voices, low and murmuring beneath the music, and the susurration of fabric, shoes sweeping over the wood floors in time. Yet, each nook and cranny proved empty. Whatever furnishings and pleasing paintings that once hung here had long ago been swept away. There was no dust, but nor was there signs of life despite the rise and fall of whispers that must’ve been canned away a generation ago. 

Mr. Lannister wasn’t here as far as she could tell, and there was no time for other mysteries. Quickly, she went back through the doors. Almost as soon her back was to them, they slammed shut so hard that almost fell to the floor with the reverberations. The music cut off, silence invading the manor more profoundly than ever. All she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears. 

She didn’t bother searching the kitchen, only went to the front door and wrenched it open. There were footprints leading down the steps. Beyond that she could barely see. The wind whipped up the powder, moving it above the frozen crust of snow like white sand over ruthless dunes. 

Brienne buttoned her coat, held the poker fast and went slowly down. The footprints were fresh enough that not much new snow had settled in them. The flakes as they came down, soft and almost apologetic, caught in her eyelashes. It came up to her knees, soaking through the pajama pants almost immediately. Instantly cold and wet, she gritted her teeth and followed the impressions through the thick piles. 

It was slow going, cutting through the pristine banks, despite the impressions he had left for her. His route seemed dismally obvious, snaking around the house and to the cliff that seemed a siren song to him. 

By the time she was close enough to spot him, she was shivering violently, teeth clattering together. He stood several feet away from the edge at least, but he had not bothered with so much as a coat and the snow had settled on his shoulders and hair. If she didn’t know better, she would’ve assumed he was a statue. 

“Mr. Lannister!” She called out, the horrible deja vu of the morning not so long ago rushing back to her. 

She did not need to call again. He turned to her slowly. 

“Miss Tarth,” his voice carried on the wind, stiff as her hands felt. “I had hoped you would sleep in.” 

It wasn’t him. It was the person who had spoken to her in the dark of her bedroom the night Sansa had slipped out to be with Jon. She would never forget that cadence, the deadly poise.

 _“The trouble with opening a door for someone is that once you do, just about anyone can get in.”_

There were a dozen feet or more between them. A wind pulled snow to obscure him momentarily and when all settled again, he had moved closer. 

“You have been a nuisance, Miss Tarth.” 

“All in the line of duty,” she said, her words mangled by her freezing lips and clacking teeth. 

“I was close to my goal before you showed up. You just had to try to scrape together this pathetic pile of flesh that calls itself a man.” 

“That was what I was hired to do,” she folded her arms tightly over her chest. “And I won’t allow anyone, alive OR dead to undue my hard work, thank you very much.” 

“I won’t be undoing it. I intend to make use of it,” the eyes that belonged to Mr. Lannister swept dismissively over her. “Previous to yesterday, I was at a bit of a loss, but it seems electricity is a powerful disrupter of the spiritual world. If someone had told me before all of this, I would’ve laughed in their faces, but a wise man accepts the proof before his eyes. It was easy to call him down today. Practically effortless.” 

Pieces of puzzle clattered down to the table of Brienne’s mind. Pieces she had forcibly kept apart, because knowing would reveal how little she could do. 

Her abrupt discovery of Mr. Lannister at the threshold. The death of the patriarch on the front steps. The cold in the hall that made Walda silent. The rage of a woman when her domain was violated. 

Two ghosts, the outside and inside. A door ajar in the house. In the mind. 

“If you mean to kill him-” 

“Kill him?” The face contorted into a condescending scoff. “You idiot woman, why would I kill him? I want the Lannister line to continue, and it certainly won’t be through the murderous imp. No, I intend to hollow out this broken frame. Do you not see the storm coming for him?” 

He pointed out, beyond the cliff to the foaming, ravenous ocean. She hadn’t cast her glance away from him since she had spotted the figure in the snow, but now she looked. The waves were higher than she’d ever seen, crashing hard, sending up a cascade of spray. And in the spray, there were figures. At first, she thought them figments, the way one might find a face in an electrical socket or leaves in a tree. But the longer she looked, the more they resolved themselves. 

These were the Lannisters that came before, their clothes from bygone errors, but the jut of their chins and the carve of their cheeks all alike. 

These were the lost ones. The ones that had answered the call of the void. And now, it seemed, they were returning or trying. Climbing with the water, they were raised up on foam and ice. They clawed at the cliff face with hands that had not touched dry land in longer than she had been alive. 

Their Lord watched them serenely, “They all wish a piece of him. They think that if they have him they will walk again. So let them claw his mind to pieces and I will sweep in after to take what’s left.” 

Brienne lifted her poker, “Let him go.” 

“Or what?” Lord Lannister lifted a brow that should have been sardonic instead of cruel. “Will you save him by bashing in his head? Or do you mean to harm me with something as base as iron?” 

Undaunted, she advanced, though her frozen feet barely wanted to take her. “Release him!” 

Mr. Lannister had regained much of his strength, but he still misjudged his body and she had never doubted that in a fair fight, she would beat him. They had not yet gotten to such an idea. A spirit apparently had no such issue, had no such limitation. The force that hit her was only half a punch, half something else, buzzing and electric that knocked her backwards. She stumbled, but did not fall. 

“I’ll deal with you after,” another lash of energy and this time she did topple, forced to toss the poker aside so she did not land on it. “Or I’ll let them do it.” 

The ghosts were advancing, the first set of hands scrambling on the last precipice before the top. 

_“What would you do then?” Renly asked, his face was full of naked pain, but he was still smiling at her. As if her company amused him more than his agony could reach. She liked to believe that was true, holding the thought close._

_“I suppose that I would charge at them with my remaining forces,” she frowned, “if a retreat would save no lives.”_

_“Be a little more creative,” he laughed, not at her, never at her. Just with her, for she laughed too despite the dour turn of conversatoin. He put his hand over hers, “There’s always a third option.”_

_“What is it?”_

_“If I knew, then I wouldn’t be laying here,” he shrugged, then winced as it pulled his stitches._

Brienne looked upwards at the white sky, perfect mirror to the unbroken blankness below. She thought of Renly. Of Mr. Lannister and Mr. Tyrion. She thought about Sansa reading about her death in some dry obituary if it was reported at all. Or worse, just a line about a misplaced nurse, whereabouts unknown. 

She thought about jumping off a cliff into the icy embrace of the sea. It was intrusive, pervasive and so clearly alien that it woke her out of her daze.

With one heave, she was on her feet. In another she pushed through the snow, back into her own tracks. Beaten down twice now, they gave her more footholds. There was no running through it, but she moved quickly. She ignored any sound that came behind her, reaching only desperately for the front door of the manor. 

At last she stumbled into the foyer and then forced her numb legs to carry her up the stairs. It was possible she could be heard from the front door, but there was no time for inexactitude. At the top of the stair she called out, 

“Cersei Lannister Baratheon! Your brother needs you!” 

Claws cut into her wrists almost immediately, a bruising hold. She was aware of her precarious position, easily pushed down the grand staircase. There was no breath on her face, but she looked forward anyway, nearly certain of the spirit’s location. 

“You cannot leave this place unassisted,” Brienne said with a certainty she didn’t feel. “And I can’t stop your father on my own. If you want him to live, then we have to work together. I will...I will be open to you. Just you. Just for this.” 

The house itself seemed to inhale. 

And then Brienne was screaming. On her knees and screaming her throat bloody and raw. The scream of the war. The scream of her own pain. And the scream of someone else. There was a knife in her belly and blood on her hands. 

They were in so much pain. Brienne watched as her body stood anyway. It moved down the stairs, practically flying. It paused at the front door, but only for a moment before stepping over the threshold. 

“At last,” her mouth moved. 

They were free. They were bleeding and wounded, but they were free. The body felt no cold now. It had been cold for so long that it wasn’t worth noting. It was only moving, slicing through the snow. This was how Mr. Lannister had come to be so injured, Brienne realized, separate for a moment. The dead had no care of flesh. They no longer recalled it’s limitations. 

The body moved and the snow parted. 

Lord Lannister still stood, the ghosts of his ancestors ascending. They had made it over the edge now, crawling to his feet. 

_He means to empty him. To use him,_ Brienne thought loudly. _We must get him back into the house._

The body gave no sign of hearing. It piled onward. 

“Again?” Lord Lannister sighed, reaching out. He tried whatever otherworldly power he had used before. The body felt it, but it parted around it. 

“Hello, Father.” 

The face was smiling. A smile that Brienne had never felt before, carved and sharp as a dagger. 

“Ah, so you managed a little trick of your own,” Lord Lannister scoffed. “Do you want a pat on the head, dear?” 

“He is mine,” hissed the voice. “You have no claim on him.” 

“I don’t want him. I don’t particularly want any of you. Useless in life, pathetic in death. Clinging to each other like children. What use is he to me? If you want whatever remains of him, it goes to you. I only require the body.” 

“No!” The hands reached out. They grasped the bandages at the end of Mr. Lannister’s arm. Brienne couldn’t feel them. She registered no sensation at all. “You have no right.” 

“I have every right!” A jerk and the body stumbled again, but hung on with tenacity, clinging to the wounded flesh. “He is my son.” 

“And he is MINE!” 

And the body was not even a body for a moment, it was only a single hand reaching. Their combined furious will grasped and pulled. They stripped away the bandages and with them the wiggling, slick spirit of what had been Lord Tywin Lannister. It did not come easily, clinging with barbed hooks at the flesh that it had seized, but they would not be stopped. There was no quarter, no mercy. 

When it lay before them, still fighting, they tore it apart. Brienne could not tell how, only that they were. That they rendered what had been into what wasn’t. The silvery shredded remains were carried away on the winds. The ancestors froze in their shambling places, watching the scraps pass over their heads. 

Then the body was a body again and it reached with physical hands for Mr. Lannister. 

“Jaime,” said the voice, both tender and urgent. “Come along.” 

“I feel ill,” he murmured, coming into their arms, letting them draw him out over the snow. 

The spell that had held the ancestors broke with a collective wail. It shook the very land. Roof tiles cascaded down, falling like shrapnel around them. 

“The house isn’t safe,” Brienne said. 

“Fuck the house,” Cersei said in turn and they went on into the blinding, unending white. 

Glass cracked and shattered behind them, music ran through the air, cascading notes of wild violins. They pushed onward. At first Brienne assumed they were headed for the stables or more practically to Podrick’s quarters, but Cersei had other ideas. They half-dragged Mr. Lannister onward over what might’ve been the main drive. Familiar trees were rendered strangers under their heavy weight and Brienne quickly lost her bearings. 

“No,” he protested weakly. “Cersei, you can’t.” 

“I can and I will. If this stupid cow is to be all I can have, then don’t think I won’t claim her. He stole my life and I won’t have another chance.” 

“No,” he moaned, but he let himself be led. 

_Get out!_ fear curdled in Brienne as she struggled to part her mind from Cersei’s. She tried to reclaim her limbs, struggling against the walls that slammed up against her. 

They were pulled inexorably along, Cersei as sure a force as decay. Brienne moved through muck, though brick and cracked glass, but she could not reach her own legs. 

Out of the corner of her eye, there was a flash of light. 

The gazebo.

A surety entered Brienne that she had not felt in sometime. The surety of an open wound and her quick hands. The surety of a gun and its bullet. Cersei wanted to leave the grounds. She wanted out through the front gate. 

And Brienne wanted the grotto. 

Cersei had many years of practicing want. She knew how to get, how to reach and pull things into her orbit. How to cajole, to fake begging, to cry on command and scream when nothing else could do. It hadn’t treated her well in the end, but they were skills that Brienne had no practice in. 

But Brienne had something else. Years of not wanting. Years of shoving down her few desires. Swallowing whole the things that were required. It had built in her a rock of repressed feeling. It stuck in her throat, in her chest. And like a cork in a shaken bottle, she could aim it and release. 

Cersei was bent low under the torrent of Brienne’s desires. So many laughing, mocking voices, nos and blows that she had learned to duck and fit herself around. And now she was expanding, pushing all of it out and away. It was enough to knock Cersei off true. For Brienne to seize the reins for precious minutes. 

“The gazebo,” she gasped, turning their trajectory. 

“Miss Tarth?” Mr. Lannister roused himself, his eyes no longer clouded. 

“Quickly,” she urged him along and was relieved when he began to move entirely on his own power. 

“What good will it do?” 

“I don’t know!” She half-yelled, half-laughed, a bubbling hysteria rising in her. “I don’t understand any of this madness. But you told me that you cannot leave the grounds, so we’re not leaving.” 

“Is she still there?” he looked at her as if she might hold a caged tiger. Perhaps she did. 

“Yes,” Brienne gritted, could feel Cersei behind her teeth and in her chest. “So move!” 

The land around the grotto was untouched by snow. Every stone sat serenely in green grass and good brown dirt despite the walls of snow around them. As they stepped onto the rocks, it was like walking into spring. 

“How can this be?” Mr. Lannister turned in a slow circle, taking it in. “How did you know?” 

“I didn’t,” Brienne kept moving forward, some base part of her seeking the fragile protection of the glass walls. She stopped. “Mr. Lannister?” 

“What is it?” he came to her side, slowing. Cersei raged, pressing against every inch of her skin until Brienne was sure it would break her apart at the seams. Still she managed to lift her hand and point. 

Sitting on the bench inside the gazebo was a woman that didn’t look like a Lannister at all. 

“Mother?” Mr. Lannister and Cersei asked in tandem. 

The woman stood and her arms opened in a welcoming embrace.


	12. The Will of the Women of the Rock

Brienne's body became Cersei’s in a blink of longing, the lost daughter surging forward to greet her mother. They did not collide, so much as sank one into the other, their formless forms intermingling as Mr. Lannister hovered beside them. Lady Lannister pressed her insubstantial hand to his cheek. 

“My tie here is weak,” Lady Lannister held fast to her children as best as she could, “but I can complete what I set out to do.” 

“What’s that?” Mr. Lannister asked, his voice thick. 

“To bring it to an end, my love,” she said gently. “It’s time for you to go.” 

“I can’t,” he sobbed. “The Rock...” 

“It’s just a place.” 

“Our place,” Cersei hissed. “This is ours, mother.” 

“You think this place has ever been owned by a woman?” Lady Lannister sighed, a whisper creasing the air. “I built this glass home for myself on the land that loathed me. Shored it up with the only protections I knew. And still it resists my presence, resents my very womb.” 

“I am a Lannister,” Cersei insisted, her contortion of Brienne’s mouth a painful itch. “I was born to it. It’s mine as much as it’s his. Maybe more. I stayed. I bled here. I died here!” 

“So did I. So did a hundred others that clung to that name like it was a lifeline instead of death’s net. It’s our time to escape, daughter. To leave all of this behind. Let them suffer as they will.” 

“Mama,” Mr. Lannister frowned. 

“And you must leave,” Lady Lannister turned to him. “Let it fall into ruin, Jaime.” 

“But-” 

“But what? Do you have such love for the house that is eating you alive in its belly? For the family that devours whatever is left of your soul?” her solidity became more certain, even more present and for a moment not she seemed not a spirit at all, “I saw everything. I know what this place and my husband have done to you and what you did in return to survive.” 

“Oh God in heaven,” Mr. Lannister stared at her. “We never should have-” 

“I absolve you of your sins, though that’s not for me to do,” she said solemnly, “but it’s time to leave. Time to pry the hooks out.” 

“You can’t go,” Cersei whined, reaching for him, but Brienne held down her arms, regaining some control. “You can’t leave me.” 

“You’ll go with Mother,” his eyes darted between them. “It’s time...it’s long past time. I can’t keep pretending. You’re gone, sister. You’re dust.” 

“No!” she shrieked, the windows rattling in their panes. They were a chorus of clinking glass. “I can be alive again. Just let me in again, Jaime. One last time...just this last time so we can be together. Death can’t part us, you promised me.” 

“I didn’t know what I was promising,” he put his hand on Brienne’s elbow, tender and firm. “This isn’t life. Not for you. Not for me.” 

She wailed the war. That unhinging jaw, the fall of missiles and the screams of men pouring from Brienne’s mouth. It was wrong, wrong, in a mortal body, and Brienne could taste blood. 

“Enough of that now,” Lady Lannister reached out and yanked. Just as Brienne and Cersei had dragged Lord Lannister out. 

Cersei fought and ripped and shrieked, glass panes cracking and one exploding in shards that fell slowly as if the air had turned to water. For a moment, it seemed that Cersei would win. That she would cling, barbed into Brienne’s flesh and wrench it to her command. 

“Let go,” Mr. Lannister said crisply. His shoulders squared and his eyes were icy. “Now, Cersei. Enough now.” 

The soldier stood like an oak tree in the green house, steady and rooted. Cersei’s screams turned to a furious sob. She cried like a lost child as she released her hold on Brienne and went into her mother’s arms. 

“Go.” Lady Lannister held her daughter until their spirits became one, pulsing with unbearable brightness.

Mr. Lannister reached out and took Brienne’s hand. As one, they turned and ran. For her part, Brienne did not look behind and she did not dare check to see if Mr. Lannister did. They left behind the circle of spring and were back into the unforgiving chill of the snow. 

“Oi!” A dark spot waved its arms wildly. “Miss! Sir!” 

“Podrick!” Brienne yelled back, the lacerations in her mouth garbling her words. “Are you alright?” 

“Fine, miss!” he clomped through the snow struggling to meet them. The horses were trudging behind him, clearly struggling to keep up, walking delicately through the piles. “Only I think the storm’s done something...I don’t know. The earth started shaking! I was worried the barn would fall on the horses and when I went to check on you, saw your prints in the snow headed out this way.” 

“We’re all right,” Brienne said though she wasn’t at all sure that was true. 

“You both look a sight, if you don’t mind me saying.” 

The ground shook beneath their feet, and they all clutched at each other to keep from going over. 

“Reminds me of the Blitz,” Podrick said, his mouth pinched up as they regained their footing. 

“It is the Blitz,” Mr. Lannister had no cloud in his eyes, he spoke with the soberness he’d had in the greenhouse. “The ghost if it anyway. She’s bringing it down on my head.” 

“Sir?” Prodrick asked tremblingly. “Are you well?” 

The ground gave another great heave and this time they did all spill over into the snow. A loud crack resounded through the air and as they sat up, it was to see the stately face of the manor crumble away. Whole swaths of masonry crumbled and fell, sending up clouds of debris. 

There was no argument. They turned from the dying manor and headed towards the gates. They were all struggling, horses and people alike. Mr. Lannister did not relinquish his grip on her hand, but they kept each other upright. It seemed to take hours, and by now Brienne had reached a place beyond the cold. She was starting to sweat. 

The gates loomed out from the ground, covered nearly up to their chains. Podrick fished in his pockets and pulled the keys out triumphantly, rapidly undoing the chains. Then tried to open them. 

“The snow!” he despaired and all three of them began to pull, trying to make a gap wide enough against the weight. Their hands were going numb, and their arms shook with the effort. 

“We have to clear it,” Brienne turned from the gates, to kick and push at the drifts, trying to move it enough to gain some traction around the iron maw.   
There was the sharp whistle of a plane and Brienne looked up, but the sky was empty. Then the ground quaked again, tossing them around like ragdolls. 

“Miss Tarth!” Mr. Lannister called. 

“I’m alright,” she said weakly, trying to rise, but her leg gave out from beneath her. She frowned down at it. It looked very wrong, bent in a way that didn’t make sense. 

“Don’t move,” Podrick’s face was white. “Please, don’t...” 

“It’s fine,” Mr. Lannister looked grimly down at her. “Come on then.” 

He leaned down and got his elbow under her arm. He dragged her up and she gasped as the pain finally registered. 

“You should leave me,” she said quickly. “You can come back with help.” 

“Your lips are blue, harpy,” his voice was gentle, calm. “There’s enough of a gap now. You did well. Get on the other side of the gate, Podrick. I’ll get her to you.” 

She disliked the ensuing manhandling and poor Podrick while strong did not have Mr. Lannister’s height. She nearly bowled them both over trying to keep off her bad leg as she passed through the gap in the gate. It wasn’t wide enough for the horses, but perhaps they could make do a little longer than she could. 

Mr. Lannister looked at them from the other side. Then back over his shoulder. They were too far away to see the manor now, it was lost among the quivering trees. She sucked in a breath, ready to break whatever spell hung over him. 

“Goodbye,” he said, so quietly she thought she might have dreamed it. 

He stepped through the gates and took an unsteady step towards them. For a moment, nothing at all happened and she almost laughed in surprised relief. 

And then the gates slammed shut, a maw of iron crushing him between. 

“No!” she reached for him, gripping his wrist while trying to stay upright herself. 

“Just go!” He grimaced. “Get away from here. You can come back for me.” 

“This goes both ways, you idiot!” She snarled and pulled harder. 

“Oi, that's enough now,” a soft voice lapped over them. They all froze in their horrible tableau, looking for it’s source. 

The gate groaned, holding fast. From behind Podrick, a stocky young woman who glowed like the moon moved forward. She ignored them all, only setting her hands on one stone pillar. 

“Let go,” she coaxed like the gate was a wild horse. “Come along now.” 

With a reluctant shudder, the gates widened and Mr. Lannister collided with Brienne. Podrick braced her with all his remaining strength and she managed to hold Mr. Lannister up until he could right himself. His eyes were glued to the woman at the gate. She turned to face him. Their eyes caught. Then she moved, bypassing him altogether. 

Instead, she leaned into Brienne’s ear and whispered a command. 

“I will,” she promised quickly. “Thank you.” 

The spirit nodded and inhaled, disappearing on the exhalation. 

Without another word between their broken and bleeding group, they began to pick their way down the winding mountain road away from dying manor.


	13. From Scorched Earth Grow the Moonlit Woods

When Brienne woke, she knew immediately she was in a hospital. The curious intermingling of smells that seemed to prevail in wards across the front and at home was forever ingrained in her. She felt curiously floaty which suggested an ample dose of morphine. Her leg stretched out before her in a white cast. 

The light slanted in through the curtains with the pale yellow of late afternoon sun. Noise trickled in too, cars and people shouting. Too busy for Lannisport. They must've moved her. 

It had been Davos that rescued them from the road, himself making the dangerous journey up to the manor after the sounds of it’s collapse had reached the village below. 

From there her memory grew blurry and tentative. There had been some kind of cart perhaps and a bumpy ride. She remembered trying to explain that she was too hot for the blankets they heaped on her and that they should check Mr. Lannister for broken ribs. Podrick’s voice drifted in and out as well, as if he were telling her a very long story. 

Without further memory, she was left with her sore body and the scant few clues of her room. The window yielded nothing further, so she turned her heavy head. There was a chair pulled close to her bed and it was occupied by Mr. Lannister. He appeared to be asleep, slumped forward a little. He had stubble on his cheeks, but his hair looked better than it had in their entire acquaintance. Someone who actually knew what they were doing must’ve cut it, evening out the rough hack job she’d managed. He wore a suit of clothes that she’d never seen. They looked smart and well pressed, tailored for his body as it was now instead of holding the shape of a younger man. 

Even asleep, he looked every inch the fine gentleman that she had expected to meet that first day all those months ago. Handsome, wealthy, and perhaps, judging by the downturn of his lips even in sleep, still a little melancholy.

Her limbs leaden with morphine, Brienne moved her hand slowly across the bed covers until it could sort of tumble onto his where it lay just barely touching the edge of the thin mattress. He woke with a start, his eyes going to her face and a look of relief removing the last lines of stress. 

“Miss Tarth,” he breathed out and turned his hand palm up so he could hold her hand in his. “You’re awake.” 

“A little,” she hoped she didn’t sound as slurry as it felt in her mouth. “Your ribs...” 

“Fine,” he assured her, “only bruised, but you should be asking after yourself, you know. Your leg was rather spectacularly broken.” 

“How clumsy of me,” she frowned. “I’ve never broken anything in my life.” 

“Yes,” he snorted, “surely this entirely your fault. You also had terrible hypothermia and nearly frostbitten. I was afraid for your toes, but I’ve been assured you got to keep all of them.” 

“Oh. How long have I been...wherever we are?” 

“You’re in a private hospital in London, Tyrion’s treat. He’s funding our recoveries with remarkable charity,” he held onto her hand a little tighter, “they had to operate on your leg and there was no one Lannisport to do it. We had to find medical transport. You were in and out before surgery, but it’s not worrisome that you can’t remember. It’s been five days all told.” 

“That’s a long time,” she said distractedly. Her leg itched under the cast and his hand was so very warm on hers. “I’m sorry about your house. Is everyone else alright?” 

He barked a laugh, “My God, harpy, the things you think of. Let the devil take the house, if he hasn't already! Podrick and the horses are resettled at my brother’s tawdry country manse. Walda and Davos have both been well compensated for their years of diligence and can go about free of that horrible place.” 

“And you?” 

“Ah, well that is a question,” he picked up her hand. There was a bruise there that she couldn’t place, already gone yellow over her thumb. He lifted her hand to his lips and touched it so gently that she was half-sure the contact hadn’t happened. A product of a drug soaked mind. “You’re free of me as a patient. Apparently, leaving that place has done wonders for my mental clarity and my stump has healed entirely to the satisfaction of the doctors here.” 

“Truly?” she wasn’t sure what her lips were doing. She hoped it was a smile instead of a grimace. 

“Mm, there has been discussion of a prosthetic.” 

“There’s an ingenious one I’ve seen with a two-pronged hook that clamps,” she has sent away for a magazine or two back in the fall though that seemed ages ago now. “Very useful.” 

“I thought most just got a fake looking hand and get on with it,” he frowned. 

She yawned, “Get something useful. You’re not very good at being decorative.” 

“Excuse me?” 

But she was already drifting off again. 

The next few days were mostly a haze of morphine and nurses that she didn’t recognize. It seemed as though she should. As if one of them would turn and it would be a face she knew, but it was not meant to be. A few of them were good, others a little sloppy, but she did not correct them. It was easier to let the world wash over her. She absorbed it through the bits of newspaper she could read in lucid windows and the gossip in the hallways. 

And from Mr. Lannister who came for every moment of every visiting hour. He sometimes finagled extra minutes, using his charm on the more susceptible nurses. He brought cards to play and little stories from time out in the city. Sometimes, he brought in food too, treats that he’d gathered for her. 

Once she had remarked the room was a little chilly at night. She’d said it offhandedly, not wishing to complain when the quality of her care was so much more than she was used to. The next day, he brought her a sweater. It was a thick knit thing, the palest of blues.

“Goes with your eyes,” he’d said, delighted as she pulled it on. 

“Does it?” It was very warm at least and quite soft. “Do you think we could go outside? I hear it’s warmer today. ”

After some wrangling and a wheelchair, they did make it to the courtyard. Other patients were out enjoying the weak sun, but there was a corner of a bench free for Mr. Lannister and she turned the wheelchair to face him. Her leg stuck out like a white flag. Today she’d taken no morphine at all for the first time and it did ache terribly, but it was good to feel clear again. 

“It’ll rain again tomorrow,” Mr. Lannister said idly. 

“Most likely. It rains a lot more here than it did back home,” she watched his face, instead of the sky. “More than it did on the front too.” 

“Will you go back once you’ve healed?” 

“Back where?” she frowned. The war was over, she was certain. Despite all it’s recent reminders. 

“To America.” 

“Oh no,” she wrinkled her nose. “Why would I do that?” 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d had enough of England. If you might give up on your little house in the northern woods, all things considered.” 

“The woods haven’t wronged me,” she squared her shoulders. “Once I receive my last pay from your brother, I should have enough to at least begin. I might have to take a job or two once I’ve relocated.” 

She’d written to Sansa already, but by all accounts the roads in and out of Winterfell would be impassable for another week or so. She had no doubt that Sansa would be sitting at her side otherwise. 

“And you’ll be free of all Lannister nonsense,” he said lightly, smiling, but she saw the tightness around his eyes. 

“I...don’t think I ever will be,” she replied. “I hope that we can still be friends. I do like writing letters a great deal.” 

“Of course,” his false smile went wider, “I’m sure you’re a fine correspondent.” 

He changed the subject, telling her a story about the misunderstanding he’d had with the clerk when buying her sweater. It all seemed as it had been. 

Yet, the next day for visiting hours, he did not appear. She waited, her stomach souring. At twenty minutes past the hour, Mr. Tyrion strolled in instead. 

“Miss Tarth, how good to see you in nearly one piece again,” he took Mr. Lannister’s usual chair. “And what a fine sweater. It took Jaime over two hours and three stores to pick one, so I’m glad it looks well on you.” 

“Two hours?” she looked down at the poor thing that she’d already treated rather shabbily by sleeping in it. 

“Mm, he’s been particular about acquiring things for you,” he said as if this was very amusing and not at all a revelation. “So, I’ve heard tell that you have your heart set on leaving London.” 

“Not so much leaving this place as going to where I always intended,” she said quickly. “I’m very appreciative of the care-” 

“Please don’t,” he snorted. “I think any sane person would agree that I’ve done you a very bad turn. I knew that things in the manor had taken a wicked turn, but I refuse to believe in the supernatural, you see. Which is quite inconvenient when it seems determined to believe in me.” 

“I didn’t believe either,” she frowned. “I'm not certain I've been sane these last few months." 

“You’re saner than me. Possibly the sanest person I’ve ever met,” he shrugged. “But regardless, I put you in a bad spot on purpose and didn’t leave you much of a lifeline. I did keep meaning to check in again. Once I got as far as the gate, and such a feeling came over me- I can’t even explain it. It had happened before, but I used to be able to push past it. I assumed it was just good old-fashion dread, but now I wonder.” 

Brienne though she might be able too. She was about to say so when he barreled on, 

“I’ve managed to get a telegram up to your friend, Lady Stark. Pure northern stubbornness not to have a telephone, I must say.” 

“You did?” she sat up, wincing as she jarred her leg. “Is everything alright?” 

“Yes, they are very snowed in, but she was very distressed on hearing of your situation. It took a little while, communicating by dots and dashes is not very speedy, but there is a spot of land that she has set aside for you and with the hazard pay I intend to add, I think you’ll find you have more than enough for your house.” 

“Oh,” she bit her lip,”I don’t need any charity.” 

“You almost died, Miss Tarth,” he said brusquely. “And my brother has, in the most stringent of terms, described how very many times you saved him from a terrible fate. That is far above and beyond what I was paying you for. So you will take my money and say thank you, if you please.” 

“Thank you,” she said carefully. 

“You’re very welcome. Thank you for saving my brother from a fate out of a terrible novel,” he nodded. “Now, I know of an architect who works in that area and I think you should consider him for designing your house.” 

The conversation moved fluidly into the kind of home she had envisioned. It was strange to think her castle in the clouds might become a very real building. By summer, she’d be fully healed and there would already be a frame of her home rising out of the good dark earth. 

“Just a last thing to consider,” Mr. Tyrion got down off the chair as visiting hours drew to a close, “I hope you’ll have a guest room for when I come to visit.” 

“Of course,” she said bemused and pleased that he might want to come see her though she hardly thought they were that close. “I’ve already decided on two bedrooms.”

“Best make it three. It’s always good to have an extra when you need a break from each other.” 

“Each other?” she frowned. “What do you mean?” 

“Ah, is that the time?” 

And he was gone, doffing his hat on the way out. 

She had no visitors the next day. Reluctantly, she asked a nurse if she might wheel herself out. Instead an orderly took her and left her close to the door of the courtyard. A light drizzle was coming down and she watched it coat everything. Perhaps this was his way of saying goodbye, goading his brother into overcompensating her. They would certainly part with no debt between them. 

Brienne had said goodbye to many with less warning. It has always hurt, but this injury was new. It felt gory and raw, a knife pulled from a stab wound. She turned her face up to the rain and inhaled deeply. It was only pain and she had lived through that before. And she certainly didn’t have a little cry over it. 

So of course, he turned right back up the next day as if he’d never been gone. Beautiful bastard. 

“Miss Tarth,” he smiled at her merrily, setting a box in her hand. “Tyrion says you agreed to let his friend design your house.” 

“It seemed sensible. I don’t know any architects or much about building a house,” she conceded. It was a pretty little box, wrapped in icy blue paper and topped with a silver ribbon. But she was distracted by the hand that had passed it to her. “Let me see!” 

He laughed and held out the prosthetic for inspection. It was a clever marvel of leather, wood and metal, covering the hooks she had described just enough to be a suggestion of fingers. 

“I had it fitted yesterday, that’s why I couldn’t come,” he explained and she immediately felt altogether foolish. “I should’ve sent word, my apologies.” 

“It’s fine,” she said lightly. “Is it hard to use?” 

“Mm, but I’ll master it. It’ll just take time and I was without for long enough,” he plucked at her blanket to show her that he could. “I did break a few teacups yesterday. Luckily they were a set Tyrion doesn’t much like or I’d be out in the cold.” 

“I’m sure you’d have to do worse for that,” she snorted. “I’m glad you’ve got it.” 

“Me too,” he nodded. “I’ll have my hands full soon enough.” 

“Oh? Have you found work of some kind?” she couldn’t really imagine him doing a regular man’s job. 

“I hope so. I suppose you could say I’m still interviewing,” he smiled as if he’d made an amusing joke. 

“What for?” 

“Open your present up, Tarth, goodness you ask a lot of questions.” 

“Mr. Lannister,” she huffed, but turned her attention to her gift. He hadn’t bothered wrapping any of the other little tokens he’s bought her. 

The paper was thick and lovely, so she undid it with care, setting it aside over his protests that she just open it already. Inside was a fine looking box of blue crushed velvet that was very pleasing under her fingers as she opened it. 

And inside was a ring. It was a simple, practical thing, just a band of gold really. No gemstones at all. The kind of ring she might’ve imagined if anyone had ever asked her opinion on what she’d like to wear. 

“What on earth...” 

“I know that your house will be small,” he squirmed under her regard. “But I thought, perhaps, it might be large enough for two.” 

“Is...is this because you’re sleeping in Mr. Tyrion’s guest room?” he’d complained some about the place. Apparently it reeked of cigar smoke and something less savory that he wouldn’t name. “Because I’m sure you could find another situation.” 

“No!” his eyes went wide, “Honestly, woman, I’m asking if you want to marry me!” 

All sound in the corridor ceased as if the hospital itself had sucked in a surprised breath. 

“I-” she stared at him, “me? Marry you?” 

“You don’t need to sound so startled,” he deflated. “I know I haven’t been myself exactly and you’re a very singular, extraordinary woman, but I thought perhaps you could overlook my shortcomings-” 

“Mr. Lannister, have you seen me? I’m not a match for you. We barely even know....” she had to stop herself, seeing the hurt crossing his face. She knew all of his expressions, she realized. And his preferences and idiosyncrasies. She knew all his card strategies, the calluses on his heart, and all his private pains, “I suppose we do know each other.” 

“You know me better than I know myself,” he said solemnly. “And while I admit that you are not perhaps, a classic beauty, I have come to appreciate your looks. You’re striking. Arresting. Stunning, frankly.” 

“I don’t think so,” she muttered, looking at the ring. So simple and blatant. “I’m hardly a noble.” 

“I’d argue you’re far more noble than most people with a title,” he sighed, “but I know what you think you mean. I’m barely a noble anymore. We’ll go on owning the land in name, but Tyrion’s been running the greater estate for years. He doesn’t want the title or I’d find a way to give it to him. We’ve agreed that he’ll pension me off essentially. So I’ll have some money, enough to pay my half of expenses.” 

“Like a roommate.” 

He leaned in, encroaching on her space. He waited, hovering there, searching her face. When she couldn’t muster a protest, he kissed her. It was so tender that she could not find a lie in it. All she could smell was his aftershave, bright and unyielding. 

“I don’t need a roommate, but I would very much like a wife.”

“I need to think about it.” 

“All right,” he stood back up, “I’ll be back tomorrow.” 

He did come back. Just in time to see her attempting to get out of bed. They were trying to keep her other leg from wilting and it was pleasing in a horrible way to move about the room, hopping about. He stayed and then helped her back into bed after. They played cards and it wasn’t until the time was nearly up that he tapped the box that she’d left on her bedside table, 

“How about today?” 

“I still need to think,” she flushed to say it, but he seemed remarkably untroubled. 

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

And so it went. Another two weeks in the horrible cast, and each day there he was with the question hanging about him. He continued bringing her things. They didn’t become more elaborate: warm bread from the bakery down the street, a hat for their short journeys to the courtyard, new socks when he discovered the sorry state of her once favorite pair, and some adventure stories to read. Slowly the replaced her paltry belongings that had been lost behind those iron gates. 

“Today’s the day!” he announced merrily, arriving with a profusion of flowers on a Thursday afternoon. “Freedom!” 

“Yes, I know,” she said, trying not to be amused. “It’s hardly like I’ll be running around immediately.” 

“Ah, you’ll be back to leaving me in the dust on our walks soon enough,” he grinned. 

He held her hand when they cut the cast off. She could feel the heat of the saw so close to her skin that she held back tightly. When it fell away at last, her leg was in a sad state. They both looked at it critically. 

“Well,” he said dryly, “at least I’ve found someone paler than me now. I’ll look positively tan beside you.” 

“Shut up,” she laughed and it was all right again. 

The letter from Sansa finally arrived. The pass would soon be clear and Sansa emphatically invited her to continue her convalescence at Winterfell. She would be coming down by train herself to fetch her as soon as possible. 

Brienne set aside the letter and made a phone call. She had never ordered a telegram before, but it wasn’t too difficult as it turned out, despite what Mr. Tyrion said. Then slowly, she got to her feet and limped to the shared bathroom down the hall. She washed herself as best she could, leaning heavily against the wall. She pulled her hair back out of her face, relieved to style it as she pleased once again. 

There was no other woman in the mirror over the sink. Only her own face, a little leaner than before, eyes looking wider and startled. The bruises had all faded now. Her nose was still too big and crooked, her lips still too thin and pressed as if they’d never known a smile. She saw no beauty in the circles under her eyes that never left nor the sharpness of her chin. But perhaps, she saw now a woman who had strength, tested in too many ways, and having now, a surety of her desires. That had to be something, didn’t it? 

When he arrived that day, she was not in bed at all. She had pulled the chair to the window, so she could look out over the street. In fact, she watched him come, carried by a fine black car. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and took a moment to straighten his jacket and run a hand through his hair. All these small fussings and who else could they be for, but her? 

“Look at you!” he laughed as he came in. “Are you supposed to be up and about?” 

“Who would stop me?” she said archly, pleased when he laughed harder. He came to lean against the window, attempting to perch on the shallow sill. 

“How’s the pain?” 

“Just an ache,” she looked up at him, haloed in gold by the sun. “What did you get up to today?” 

“Mostly made a nuisance of myself,” he admitted. “But signed some papers for Tyrion. My signature is improving if nothing else. And what about you, aside from mastering not falling over?” 

“I did fall over,” she admitted. “Getting out of bed, but I did it quietly enough that no one tried to rescue me.” 

“God forbid,” he snorted. “Nurses and doctors really do make for terrible patients.” 

“I was fine,” she shook her head. “And I need to practice quickly if I’m to make a train on Saturday.” 

“What train?” his expression collapsed liked a souffle. 

“To Winterfell. I’d rather finish recuperating there.” 

“I see,” he shifted, “will you need a ride to the station?” 

“I suppose we will,” she lifted her brows, “I don’t think I can walk that far just yet. Or you could help me and we could get along like a three-legged horse eventually.” 

“We?” he looked down at her and seemed at last to take in her hand. The ring fit a little snugly, but she liked that it would not budge and be easily lost. 

“I’d like to get married in the summer. I don’t think I can think well of winter again for some time.” 

“Yes,” he slid off the windowsill to his knees. He bowed his head, to rest his forehead against her thigh, “whatever you want. For the rest of your life, whatever you want you should have.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” she rested her hand in his hair. It was silk between her fingers. The kind that her calloused fingers would rip and tear, but he was stronger than silk. They both were. “I do need to speak with your brother before we go.” 

“Whatever for?” 

“To say goodbye for now, for one,” she snorted, inelegant as a horse, but he liked horses. And her. Very much so, apparently. “And there’s a thing I must tell him. I made a promise.” 

“You and your promises,” he sighed. “Easily arranged. Anything else, harpy?” 

“I don’t think you should call me that anymore.”

“No? That’s a shame, but I suppose I can find another endearment. How about dear? Sweetheart?” 

“Absolutely not. I refuse to be sweet to you.” 

“So you always have,” he grinned up at her, boyish and full of life. “Please never start.” 

They laughed together, bathed in sunlight. 

_May 8, 1947_

Brienne woke up both overheated and freezing, depending on which half of her body was under discussion. She groaned and pushed at Jaime until he rolled over, taking the rest of the blankets with him. 

“Too early,” he groaned. 

“I have to make the train,” she reminded him. 

“No,” he protested, rolling back over until he blanketed her, burying his face in her neck. “Don’t go.” 

“You are such an infant,” she groaned, but didn’t push at him very hard. 

She might, in fact, have factored in extra time to her morning for just this situation. 

They made love with the windows open as they had had nearly every morning since spring had returned again. It was their first in the house, having spent last spring in one of Winterfell’s many guest rooms. At first, she had attempted to keep proprietary, and Jaime respected it. But it was hard with Sansa and Jon carrying on like husband and wife with nary a vow between them and Arya swanning in and out as she pleased with Gendry following in her wake. Brienne had given up within weeks of arrival and they’d made love for the first time under the roof of her dear friends. 

Still, this was far preferable. He had a matching ring now and they had paperwork neatly filed away. They had their house, for it was truly theirs with all the input she’d wound up soliciting him for. It was only a little bigger than she had originally planned. There was an extra room to serve as an office for them both though he used it far more often. The kitchen was more generous too as Jaime decided to take over all cooking duties to prevent them needing to hire help. He wasn’t very good yet, but he seemed to have promise. They both preferred to have the space from other people. 

Not from each other though. If anything, Brienne was surprised by how much she wanted to be near him. Sometimes she’d set out to spend the day apart, especially when he was in an irritable mood. She’d go out for a long walk or to garden and within an hour or two, she would just happen to find something he’d be interested in or remember something she just had to tell him. He seemed to feel much the same, showing up at her elbow just when she’d started to wonder where he was. 

This would be the longest they had been apart since they had arrived at Winterfell over a year ago. 

“I’ll miss you,” he confided into her neck when they were both pleasantly spent. 

“I’ll be back soon enough,” she rested her hands over his shoulders. 

“I wish I could come with you.” 

“I know.” 

It hadn’t even been up for discussion. Whatever door had opened inside him would never again close. More than once in their time at Winterfell, she had discovered him staring at some spot at the wall and when she asked, he would tell her about some person that had been there only a moment ago. At least here, in their house, there were no dead to concern themselves with. 

“And I’ll bring you back a few things,” she reminded him.

“I’m not a child,” he grumbled, “you don’t have to bribe me.” 

“Oh, so if I don’t bring you anything, you won’t sulk?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

It took some doing, but they disentangled so she could wash and dress. He handed her a small bag when she leaned in to kiss him goodbye. 

“So you don’t have to buy anything on the train.”

“Thank you,” she held it, delighted. 

“Goodbye, wife,” he sighed and kissed her again. “Go before I try to keep you here.” 

“Goodbye, Jaime,” she loved his name. And he seemed to like hearing it as much as any pet name. 

Reluctantly she took up her travel bag and set off, just making it in time for her train. The flurry of activity distracted her and there was a book in her bag that occupied the first half of the ride. When she got hungry, she took out his carefully packed bag and found a slightly squashed sandwich, the last of the apples, and a small stack of biscuits carefully wrapped in wax paper. He’d baked them himself and they were a little dry, but there was a thermos of milk to make up for it. 

The little luncheon sustained her for the rest of the long trip to Lannisport. When she emerged into twilight in the familiar station, Walda was already waiting for her. She looked so familiar and warm that Brienne had to stop herself from running to her. Walda had no such compunctions, people jumping out of the way of her juggernaut charge. 

They met with a pleasant crash of hug, in an embrace that might break the ribs of a lesser women. 

“It’s so very good to see you again!” Walda beamed at her when they parted. “I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t answer your last letter, only I knew we’d be seeing each other so soon.” 

“Of course not. And you can call now if you’d prefer.” 

“I might just do that.” 

Walda’s taciturn husband was at the wheel of the car. He drove through the night as they chatted and took Breinne’s bag when they got to the house without saying a word to her. 

“Roosey was so pleased we’d have a visitor,” Walda grinned at her. “He’s always been fond of you.” 

“That’s nice,” Brienne settled on. She couldn’t remember saying two words to the man and was certain she’d never heard him speak at all. 

The house was pleasant and clearly Walda’s domain. The curtains were all ruffled and the furniture comfortable and fussy at the same time. The room she walked Brienne to was a pink confection. It was so pleasant and friendly, that Brienne could almost forget why she was there at all. 

But she missed Jaime’s horrible cover stealing ways and could barely sleep. It was with intense gratitude that she drank several cups of strong tea in Walda’s frilly kitchen in the morning and ate the heavy breakfast she’d made. 

“Retirement is lovely,” Walda blew over her own cup, the steam dancing away. “I’ve made three quilts this year! They take me ages usually. Plenty of time for friends too.” 

“It suits you,” Brienne smiled at her. “You look well.” 

“So do you. I suppose it’s marriage. I knew Mr. Lannister would make a decent husband one day, if he ever managed it.” 

Tyrion arrived at half past ten. He was nearly knocked off his feet by Walda’s exuberant greeting, but he seemed equally pleased to see her. 

“You should visit, terrible boy,” Walda scolded him. 

“Of course,” his normally unreadable face was a burst of bemused happiness. “I’d like that.” 

“Sit and have some tea.” 

“We should-” 

“If it's has kept this long, it will keep long enough for a cuppa and a bite.” 

By the time they were able to set to their business, they had drunk several pots of tea and been fed up to their eyeballs. 

“I think I’m too full to be sick,” Tyrion opened the door of the car for Brienne. Tyrion’s bodyguard, Bronn, was behind the wheel, looking utterly bored by the entire thing. 

“Do you have a shovel?” 

“Yes,” Tyrion said grimly. 

The pleasant morning evaporated instantly. The winding road up to the mountainside was much the same. Though she had never seen it in such bloom. It was not so different from the northern woods this time of year, lush and green. 

She had not specifically told Tyrion what they might find, still unsure how much of her memory of that day was accurate. But she had promised to take him back on this day. She had promised to dig. Maybe it was all a delusion of the moment, the whispers of a hypothermia brain. But that way led to too many other questions. Had it all been imagined? No. The manor had crumbled. She had seen what came out of the sea. Jaime had seen it. They rarely discussed it, but common agreement. When they did though, their memories lined up. 

Podrick had...well. Podrick had apparently seen nothing, not really. He seemed stunned when she’d asked him about the woman that glowed like the moon as if she were speaking gibberish and he'd been too late for the rest of it. 

“Can’t get any further,” the bodyguard stopped the car. “That pothole will take out the tires.” 

They all got out. It was less a pothole and more a gouge in the road as if something with enormous claws had raked over it. 

“Well,” Tyrion sighed. 

“I’ll be waiting here then,” Bronn lit a cigarette and sat down on the hood of the car. 

“Right. Let’s get the shovel then.” 

Brienne carried it as they walked across the pitted road. They walked in silence, the wildlife filling in where words failed. Birds called to each other and critters stirred up the undergrowth as they darted here and there. 

The gates loomed up before. They had been re-padlocked with thrice again as many chains. It was an image that rose up frequently in her dreams. Though in her dreams, the chains dropped away and the gates opened in welcome. What lay beyond shrouded in darkness. 

The reality was that she could see the gravel drive, untidy with weeds and the trees bent over it. Nothing more sinister than the first real signs of abandonment. Perhaps one day the forest would devour them entirely until there would only be gates of ivy and elm. 

“There’s a company interested in picking over the debris,” Tyrion sighed. “It’d be sensible to let them clear it, but I can’t bring myself to do it.” 

“Leave it,” she agreed. 

She wasn’t sure how she knew where to stop, but the instinct was clear. It was mere feet from the gate, hidden only by some young trees. There was a depression in the ground, only noticeable if one was really looking for it. 

“Here?” Tyrion asked. 

“I think so.” 

“I hope you’re wrong,” he took off his jacket and hung it on a low branch. “We’ll take turns.” 

The soil gave under the sharp point of the shovel. They took turns, though Brienne’s gardening built muscles lasted longer. Tyrion didn’t shirk though he easily could’ve. He seemed determined. The first half-hour found nothing and she was prepared to admit that she was wrong. 

“There,” he said quietly. An edge of yellowing fabric peeked from between two small rocks. “Give it to me.” 

She didn’t argue that she’d only just took the shovel back from him. He dug with renewed strength. More fabric emerged proving a faded pink edged with lace and beneath that, the unmistakable white of bone. 

Tyrion fell to his knees, discarding the shovel entirely to dig with his hands. With a cry of pure grief, he pulled loose a skull. There was a fragment of ribbon that cascaded from the dirt, somehow still a bright and merry yellow. 

“It’s her,” he was weeping, fat tears down his dirt-streaked cheeks. “I bought her that ribbon, a cheery yellow for a stormy day. I swear, I never thought for a moment...Tysha, I’m so sorry.” 

Brienne sat down beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder, “She watched over you. All this time. She tried to turn you away from here to protect you.” 

“I failed her,” he sobbed. “I was supposed to be the one to protect her. And I just let my bastard father lie and lie to me. I believed him because it was easier. Easier to believe she just didn’t love me or at least not more than my money.”

“She didn’t need you to believe her, I guess,” Brienne closed her eyes. “She just wanted you know the truth. To set her free. That's all she asked of me.”

"This is the day we got married." 

"I know. She said. 'Take Tyrion here on our anniversary next year. May Day. Bury me somewhere free of curses.' That's all she said." 

“Then I will,” he held the fragments of his once lover to his chest, heedless of his fine clothes. 

It took some time to gather her bones. They had no bag, but Tyrion managed one out of his jacket. The little finger bones were the hardest, scattered as they were, but they parsed through the dirt as best they could. In the end, it still seemed a pitiful small bundle to make up what had once been a hopeful young woman. 

“No part of her should stay here,” he said darkly. “Not for one more minute.” 

If Brienne discovered even smaller bones that answered the question of ‘why’, she made no point of showing them to him. Only gathered them all in and hoped as hard as she could that she was mistaken. 

They carried the bundle back to the car. The bodyguard didn’t ask. Nor did Walda when they showed up dirty and tired at her door again. All she said on the matter was, "I won't ever forgive myself for believing foolish mean gossip. She was a good one." 

Then, she let them shower and told Tyrion to make free with the phone. It was too late to set out again. Tyrion said he’d sleep on the couch, but by midnight, he knocked on her door. 

She was still awake, despite how tired she felt. She answered and let him come sit on the edge of her bed. 

“I know it’s a lot to ask, but I...can we bury her on your land?” he asked, haggard and sounded worse. “She was from the north originally though she’d never say where exactly. Even if I could talk a church into having her, she wasn’t religious and-” 

“Of course,” she agreed without any further thought. “I want her there.” 

The funeral was small. Sansa and Jon came for support and that made it look less sad. Jaime had dug the grave himself, as if he could make up for not being there when she was unearthed or indeed, buried the first time around. It was a deep grave and she had a proper casket. It wasn't hard to lift the light burden and set it into the earth. 

“She was my wife and I loved her,” Tyrion held a piece of paper, crumpled in his hand. “She was kind and warm. If she had lived, I think she would've become an extraordinary woman. She was taken far too soon by evil hands. But I’m so grateful I knew her for the time that I had her.” 

His voice cracked at the end and he closed his eyes. Jaime set his hand on his shoulder and Tyrion could only nod. Under the summer-leafed trees, she was finally put to the rest that she so profoundly deserved. 

There was a luncheon after, food that Jaime had prepared and no one complained about eating. Despite the sad occasion, Brienne couldn’t help, but feel some joy at the gathering. Podrick had accompanied Tyrion up though he had kindly refused to attend the funeral itself. His presence was a reminder of the good parts of that dark year. 

“Lightening is pining for you,” he told her and she smiled at the thought. "Mr. Tyrion said that you might have her still if you want her. Thunder too." 

"I would like that, once the barn is finished," she smiled at him. "Tell me how they've fared." 

He was full of news of horses and she listened readily. 

They all stayed late, as if afraid to break up the little party. Reluctantly in the end, Brienne wished them all a fond farewell with promises to be in touch or meet for a meal again soon. Eventually the house was just theirs again. It was only then that Brienne realized she’d mislaid her husband. She looked in the office and the kitchen which was tidy, but empty. At last, she spotted him in the garden. He rarely liked to be out of the house in the dark. Frowning, she went out into the cool night air. 

“Are you all right?” she asked, sliding an arm around his waist. 

“Just fine,” he glanced over at her and yes, his eyes were clear, “I heard something trying to nibble on your lettuce.” 

“Let the poor creature have it,” she laughed and let him draw her into an embrace. “I can afford to lose a leaf or two.” 

“That’s what will get you a bare garden,” he teased. “Too much generosity, wife.” 

Over his shoulder, something glimmered. Perhaps just the moonlight catching in just the right way. Or perhaps it was a woman, dressed in the white light gliding through the trees. 

“Brienne?” he frowned, “What is it?” 

“Nothing,” she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go in, hm?” 

They turned away from the woods and the moon. Into the snug house that had never seen death. They would make love with the windows open as if to keep the whisper of endings at bay. 

Outside, the winds would stir through the trees. Winds that traveled to every corner of the earth and most certainly to the gates of Casterly Rock. There, perhaps, even the mighty powers of nature might hesitate before creeping through the gates and up the gravel path. And just perhaps, there they found no ruins, but the lordly manor house still looming over its wild domain. Maybe even now, its arched windows were eyes unblinking above the restless sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I delighted in all your comments and they encouraged me on. I can be found at dragonmuse.tumblr.com if you're interested!


End file.
